


The Call of the Horn

by Charon Spole (cascadingpoles)



Series: The Wheel Turns Anew [2]
Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 04:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 41
Words: 198,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14036625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cascadingpoles/pseuds/Charon%20Spole
Summary: Like the pebble that starts the avalanche, even the smallest of changes can have far-reaching consequences in the Pattern of the Age.As Rand al’Thor and his friends reel from the deadly consequences of their past decisions, the Shadow marshals its forces to end their threat one way or another. Rand will need all the allies, old and new, that he can find if he hopes to prevail. Especially when the true nature of his destiny is revealed.





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second book in a series that presumes to tell the tale of what happens when The Wheel of Time turns full circle and the events of the original series begin again. It starts out almost completely identical with only a few small changes, but as the series progresses those changes will snowball to such a degree that the final half of the series will be almost completely different.
> 
> There will be new characters added as well, only a few at first, but more as I reach the later books. Many of those characters will be reincarnations of some familiar faces from other fandoms, such as Dragon Age, Dungeons and Dragons, or Marvel Comics.
> 
> A lot of the chapters in it are copy-pasted from The Wheel of Time so I won’t post the whole thing here, for fear of bringing trouble to the site. Instead, I’ll post the most heavily edited chapters, along with the entirely new ones, and add a link for anyone who cares to download the whole thing from Mega.
> 
> Full version, with map and appendix, can he found here: https://mega.nz/#F!z3xTlBqb!nf0IYutdT11SoCL8qoZmhg  
> Oh, and for those that are only interested in the smut scenes, or who would prefer to avoid scenes involving certain pairings or acts, I've included a spoiler-heavy file in the Mega download that provides a summary of all sex scenes and notes which chapter they can be found in.
> 
> Safer version begins on the next page. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> * * *
> 
> The first book of The Wheel Turns Anew was mostly identical to The Eye of the World, save for some key changes, which I will spoil below for anyone who hasn’t read it.
> 
> Firstly, as the series is very smutty, I felt I needed to make a fundamental change to Rand’s character in order to facilitate his change in attitude from prudish to promiscuous. I didn’t think it would be enough to simply declare him to be so; in my mind there needed to be a drastic reason for that change. As such, the Tenth Age’s incarnation of Rand was molested by a drunken Tam at a very young age and has been sexually active ever since. Among those he has been involved with are Marin al’Vere, Mat Cauthon and Perrin Aybara.
> 
> Aside from this fundamental change in the main character’s attitude, the most major change to occur in the first book came right at the end, when a minor distraction at a crucial moment prevented Rand from interfering when Egwene squared off against Aginor. As such, Egwene was murdered by the Forsaken, leaving the rest of the protagonists in shock.
> 
> What follows is a retelling of the events originally shown in The Great Hunt, but heavily edited to account for this new timeline, and the changes that must inevitably flow from such a loss.
> 
> Full version here: https://mega.nz/#F!z3xTlBqb!nf0IYutdT11SoCL8qoZmhg  
> Safer version begins on the next page. I hope you enjoy.

For the sake of neatness I'll start the series proper after the break.


	2. In the Shadow

PROLOGUE: In the Shadow

The man who called himself Bors, at least in this place, sneered at the low murmuring that rolled around the vaulted chamber like the soft gabble of geese. His grimace was hidden by the black silk mask that covered his face, though, just like the masks that covered the hundred other faces in the chamber. A hundred black masks, and a hundred pairs of eyes trying to see what lay behind them.

If one did not look too closely, the huge room could have been in a palace, with its tall marble fireplaces and its golden lamps hanging from the domed ceiling, its colourful tapestries and intricately patterned mosaic floor. If one did not look too closely. The fireplaces were cold, for one thing. Flames danced on logs as thick as a man’s leg, but gave no heat. The walls behind the tapestries, the ceiling high above the lamps, were undressed stone, almost black. There were no windows, and only two doorways, one at either end of the room. It was as if someone had intended to give the semblance of a palace reception chamber but had not cared enough to bother with more than the outline and a few touches for detail.

Where the chamber was, “Bors”, did not know, nor did he think any of the others knew. He did not like to think about where it might be. It was enough that he had been summoned. He did not like to think about that, either, but for such a summons, even he came.

He shifted his cloak, thankful that the fires were cold, else it would have been too hot for the black wool draping him to the floor. All his clothes were black. The bulky folds of the cloak hid the stoop he used to disguise his height, and bred confusion as to whether he was thin or thick. He was not the only one there enveloped in a tailor’s span of cloth.

His true name was Jaichim Carridin, but that was a fact that none in that room knew, and he meant to keep it that way. But of course, the others were thinking much the same.

Silently he watched his companions. Patience had marked much of his life. Always, if he waited and watched long enough, someone made a mistake. Most of the men and women here might have had the same philosophy; they watched, and listened silently to those who had to speak. Some people could not bear waiting, or silence, and so gave away more than they knew.

The young woman in the thick robe of black silk, for example. She interested him most of all. Too impatient for her own good, she had earlier made conversation with another young woman, one of those who wore the mask alone. And she had done it within Jaichim’s hearing.

Her acquaintance he judged of small account; a voice too carefully sultry, a dress cut to reveal more than was needed, and an accent that hinted of commonborn Altaran heritage not as far in her past as she liked to think. The seducer was inherently weak, their nature being to leech off the powerful. He dismissed that one.

But the other spoke as a highborn Amadician, and more, she spoke in the accents of Amador itself. Jaichim was quite familiar with Amador. There were not many candidates who could be matched to that voice and every last one of them was of interest to him. But the girl kept herself well-covered and he did not dare speak to her himself, in case she recognised him. So instead he hovered near, hoping she would let her impatience drive her to converse again. The Queen of Amadicia was a mere figurehead, but she had three daughters. Was it possible the girl was one of the Vistriams? That would be an opportunity he could exploit handsomely, one way or another.

Servants circulated through the guests, slender, golden-haired youths proffering wine with a bow and a wordless smile. Young men and young women alike, they wore tight white breeches and flowing white shirts. And male and female alike, they moved with disturbing grace. Each looked more than a mirror image of the others, the boys as handsome as the girls were beautiful. He doubted he could distinguish one from another, and he had an eye and a memory for faces.

A smiling, white-clad girl offered her tray of crystal goblets to him. He took one with no intention of drinking; it might appear untrusting—or worse, and either could be deadly here—if he refused altogether, but anything could be slipped into a drink. Surely some among his companions would have no objections to seeing the number of their rivals for power dwindle, whomever the unlucky ones happened to be.

Idly he wondered whether the servants would have to be disposed of after this meeting. Servants hear everything. As the serving girl straightened from her bow, his eye caught hers above that sweet smile. Blank eyes. Empty eyes. A doll’s eyes. Eyes more dead than death.

He shivered as she moved gracefully away, and raised the goblet to his lips before he caught himself. It was not what had been done to the girl that chilled him. Rather, every time he thought he detected a weakness in those he now served, he found himself preceded, the supposed weakness cut out with a ruthless precision that left him amazed. And worried. The first rule of his life had always been to search for weakness, for every weakness was a chink where he could probe and pry and influence. If his current masters, his masters for the moment, had no weakness ...

Frowning behind his mask, he studied his companions. At least there was plenty of weakness there. Their nervousness betrayed them, even those who had sense enough to guard their tongues. A stiffness in the way this one held himself, a jerkiness in the way that one handled her skirts.

A good quarter of them, he estimated, had not bothered with disguise beyond the black masks. Their clothes told much. A woman standing before a gold-and-crimson wall hanging, speaking softly to a figure—impossible to say whether it was man or woman—cloaked and hooded in grey. She had obviously chosen the spot because the colours of the tapestry set off her garb. Doubly foolish to draw attention to herself, for her scarlet dress, cut low in the bodice to show too much flesh and high at the hem to display golden slippers, marked her from Illian, and a woman of wealth, perhaps even of noble blood.

Not far beyond the Illianer, another woman stood, alone and admirably silent. With a swan’s neck and lustrous black hair falling in waves below her waist, she kept her back to the stone wall, observing everything. No nervousness there, only serene self-possession. Very admirable, that, but her coppery skin and her creamy, high-necked gown—leaving nothing but her hands uncovered, yet clinging and only just barely opaque, so that it hinted at everything and revealed nothing—marked her just as clearly of the first blood of Arad Doman. And unless he missed his guess entirely, the wide golden bracelet on her left wrist bore her House symbols. They would be for her own House; no Domani bloodborn would bend her stiff pride enough to wear the sigils of another House. Worse than foolishness.

The dark-cloaked man in the tooled leather tunic might have imagined himself anonymous, perhaps a farmer or a simple woodsman. He was not. The engraving on the leather was too fine, the fur that lined his boots too rich. Jaichim knew a Falmeran nobleman when he saw one.

A man in a high-collared, sky-blue Shienaran coat passed him with a wary, head-to-toe glance through the eyeholes of his mask. The man’s carriage named him soldier; the set of his shoulders, the way his gaze never rested in one place for long, and the way his hand seemed ready to dart for a sword that was not there, all proclaimed it. The Shienaran wasted little time on “Bors”; stooped shoulders and a bent back held no threat.

Jaichim snorted as the Shienaran moved on, right hand clenching and eyes already studying elsewhere for danger. He could read them all, to class and country. Merchant and warrior, commoner and noble. Here was a merchant from Kaltor, male and successful, or married into success. There was a tall and muscular Cairhienin, from the Foregate. Beyond him was a rich Saldaean lord who walked like an experience horseman. Farther still was a rough-hewn Volsuni commoner, with the scarred knuckles of a street tough, and the gold rings of a successful one. From every nation and nearly every people. His nose wrinkled in sudden disgust. Even a Tinker girl, in bright green breeches and a virulent yellow coat.  _ We can do without those come the Day. Does the foolish girl think she can hide her gender with a boy’s garb? Slender as her hips are they still give her away _ .

The disguised ones were no better, many of them, cloaked and shrouded as they were. He caught sight, under the edge of one dark robe, of the silver-worked boots of a High Lord of Tear, and under another a glimpse of golden lion-head spurs, worn only by high officers in the Andoran Queen’s Guards. That one hovered near a plump woman whose dress named her an Andoran noble; she kept to herself, yet the stiff deliberateness of her isolation shouted out that she was of high enough rank to fear being recognised even by strangers, a fear the guardsman was plainly trying to realise. A muscular fellow—muscular even in a floor-dragging black robe and an anonymous grey cloak caught with a plain silver pin—watched from the shadows of his deep cowl. He could be anyone, from anywhere ... except for the six-pointed star tattooed on the web between thumb and forefinger of his right hand. One of the Sea Folk then, and a look at his left hand would show the marks of his clan and line. Jaichim Carridin did not bother to try.

Suddenly his eyes narrowed, fixing on a woman enveloped in black till nothing showed but her fingers. On her right hand rested a gold ring in the shape of a serpent eating its own tail. Aes Sedai, or at least a woman trained in Tar Valon by Aes Sedai. None else would wear that ring. Either way made no difference to him. He looked away before she could notice his watching, and almost immediately he spotted another woman, stouter than the first, but also swathed from head to toe in black and wearing a Great Serpent ring. The two witches gave no sign that they knew each other. In the White Tower they sat like spiders in the middle of a web, pulling the strings that made nations dance, meddling, making certain that no man could rise above what they decided his place should be.  _ Curse them all to death eternal! _ He realized that he was grinding his teeth. If numbers must dwindle —and they must, before the Day—there were some who would be missed even less than Tinkers.

A chime sounded, a single, shivering note that came from everywhere at once and cut off all other sounds like a knife.

The tall doors at the far end of the chamber swung open, and two Trollocs stepped into the room, spikes decorating the black mail that hung to their knees. Everyone shied back. Even Carridin.

Head and shoulders taller than the tallest man there, they were a stomach-turning blend of man and animal, human faces twisted and altered. One had a heavy, pointed beak where his mouth and nose should have been, and feathers covered his head instead of hair. The other walked on hooves, his face pushed out in a hairy muzzle, and goat horns stuck up above his ears.

Ignoring the humans, the Trollocs turned back toward the door and bowed, servile and cringing. The feathers on the one lifted in a tight crest.

A Myrddraal stepped between them, and they fell to their knees. It was garbed in black that made the Trollocs’ mail and the humans’ masks seem bright, garments that hung still, without a ripple, as it moved with a viper’s grace.

Jaichim felt his lips drawing back over his teeth, half snarl and half, he was ashamed to admit even to himself, fear. It had its face uncovered. Its pasty pale face, a man’s face, but eyeless as an egg, like a maggot in a grave.

The smooth white face swivelled, regarding them all one by one, it seemed. A visible shiver ran through them under that eyeless look. The Myrddraal’s look shaped them into a semicircle facing the door.

Jaichim swallowed.  _ There will come a day, Halfman. When the Great Lord of the Dark comes again, he will choose his new Dreadlords, and you will cower before them. You will cower before men. Before me! Why doesn’t it speak? Stop staring at me, and speak! _

“Your Master comes.” The Myrddraal’s voice rasped like a dry snake skin crumbling. “To your bellies, worms! Grovel, lest his brilliance blind and burn you!”

Rage filled Carridin, at the tone as much as the words, but then the air above the Halfman shimmered, and the import drove home.  _ It can’t be! It can’t ... ! _ The Trollocs were already on their bellies, writhing as if they wanted to burrow into the floor.

Without waiting to see if anyone else moved, Jaichim dropped facedown, grunting as he bruised himself on the stone. Words sprang to his lips like a charm against danger—they were a charm, though a thin reed against what he feared—and he heard a hundred other voices, breathy with fear, speaking the same against the floor.

“The Great Lord of the Dark is my Master, and most heartily do I serve him to the last shred of my very soul.” In the back of his mind a voice chattered with fear.  _ The Dark One and all the Forsaken are bound ...  _ Shivering, he forced it to silence. He had abandoned that voice long since. “Lo, my Master is death’s Master. Asking nothing do I serve against the Day of his coming, yet do I serve in the sure and certain hope of life everlasting.”  _... bound in Shayol Ghul, bound by the Creator at the moment of creation. No, I serve a different master now. _ “Surely the faithful shall be exalted in the land, exalted above the unbelievers, exalted above thrones, yet do I serve humbly against the Day of his Return.”  _ The hand of the Creator shelters us all, and the Light protects us from the Shadow. No, no! A different master. _ “Swift come the Day of Return. Swift come the Great Lord of the Dark to guide us and rule the world forever and ever.”

Jaichim finished the creed panting, as if he had run ten miles. The rasp of breath all around told him he was not the only one. In his haste to prostrate himself he had not even thought to mark the Amadician Lady’s voice.

“Rise. All of you, rise.”

The mellifluous voice took him by surprise. Surely none of his companions, lying on their bellies with their masked faces pressed to the mosaic tiles, would have spoken, but it was not the voice he expected from ... Cautiously, he raised his head enough to see with one eye.

The figure of a man floated in the air above the Myrddraal, the hem of his blood-red robe hanging six feet over the Halfman’s head. Masked in blood-red, too. Would the Great Lord of the Dark appear to them as a man? And masked, besides? Yet the Myrddraal, its very gaze fear, trembled and almost cowered where it stood in the figure’s shadow. Jaichim grasped for an answer his mind could contain without splitting.  _ One of the Forsaken, perhaps _ .

That thought was only a little less painful. Even so, it meant the Day of the Dark One’s return must be close at hand if one of the Forsaken was free. The Forsaken, some of the most powerful wielders of the One Power in an Age filled with powerful wielders, had been sealed up in Shayol Ghul along with the Dark One, sealed away from the world of men by the Dragon and the Hundred Companions. And the backblast of that sealing had tainted the male half of the True Source; and all the male Aes Sedai, those cursed wielders of the Power, went mad and broke the world, tore it apart like a pottery bowl smashed on rocks, ending the Age of Legends before they died, rotting while they still lived. A fitting death for Aes Sedai, to his mind. Too good for them. He regretted only that the women had been spared.

Slowly, painfully, he forced the panic to the back of his mind, confined it and held it tight though it screamed to get out. It was the best he could do. None of those on their bellies had risen, and only a few had even dared raise their heads.

“Rise.” There was a snap in the red-masked figure’s voice this time. He gestured with both hands. “Stand!”

Jaichim scrambled up awkwardly, but halfway to his feet, he hesitated. One of those gesturing hands was horribly burned, crisscrossed by black fissures, the raw flesh between as red as the figure’s robes. Would the Dark One appear so? Or even one of the Forsaken? The eyeholes of that blood-red mask swept slowly across him, and he straightened hastily.

The others obeyed the command with no more grace and no less fear in their rising. When all were on their feet, the floating figure spoke.

“I have been known by many names, but the one by which you shall know me is Ba’alzamon.” Jaichim clamped his teeth to keep them from chattering. Ba’alzamon. In the Trolloc tongue, it meant Heart of the Dark, and even unbelievers knew it was the Trolloc name for the Great Lord of the Dark. He Whose Name Must Not Be Uttered. Not the True Name, Shai’tan, but still forbidden. Among those gathered here, and others of their kind, to sully either with a human tongue was blasphemy. His breath whistled through his nostrils, and all around him he could hear others panting behind their masks. The servants were gone, and the Trollocs as well, though he had not seen them go.

“The place where you stand lies in the shadow of Shayol Ghul.” More than one voice moaned at that; Jaichim was not sure his own was not among them. A touch of what might almost be called mockery entered Ba’alzamon’s voice as he spread his arms wide. “Fear not, for the Day of your Master’s rising upon the world is near at hand. The Day of Return draws nigh. Does it not tell you so that I am here, to be seen by you favoured few among your brothers and sisters? Soon the Wheel of Time will be broken. Soon the Great Serpent will die, and with the power of that death, the death of Time itself, your Master will remake the world in his own image for this Age and for all Ages to come. And those who serve me, faithful and steadfast, will sit at my feet above the stars in the sky and rule the world of men forever. So have I promised, and so shall it be, without end. You shall live and rule forever.”

A murmur of anticipation ran through the listeners, and some even took a step forward, toward the floating, crimson shape, their eyes lifted, rapturous. Even Jaichim felt the pull of that promise, the promise for which he had dealt away his soul a hundred times over.

“The Day of Return comes closer,” Ba’alzamon said. “But there is much yet to do. Much to do.” The air to Ba’alzamon’s left shimmered and thickened, and the figure of a young man hung there, a little lower than Ba’alzamon. Jaichim could not decide whether it was a living being or not. A country lad, by his clothes, with a light of mischief in his brown eyes and the hint of a smile on his lips, as if in memory or anticipation of a prank. The flesh looked warm, but the chest did not move with breath, the eyes did not blink.

The air to Ba’alzamon’s right wavered as if with heat, and a second country-clad figure hung suspended a little below Ba’alzamon. A curly-haired youth, as heavily muscled as a blacksmith. And an oddity: a battle axe hung at his side, a great, steel half-moon balanced by a thick spike. Jaichim suddenly leaned forward, intent on an even greater strangeness. A youth with yellow eyes. He had heard reports of such.

For the third time air solidified into the shape of a young man, this time directly under Ba’alzamon’s eye, almost at his feet. A tall fellow, with eyes now grey, now almost blue as the light took them, and dark, reddish hair. Another villager, or farmer. Jaichim gasped. Yet another thing out of the ordinary, though he wondered why he should expect anything to be ordinary here. A sword swung from the figure’s belt, a sword with a bronze heron on the scabbard and another inset into the long, two-handed hilt.  _ A village boy with a heron-mark blade? Impossible! What can it mean? _ And a boy with yellow eyes. He noticed the Myrddraal looking at the figures, trembling; and unless he misjudged entirely, its trembling was no longer fear, but hatred.

Dead silence had fallen, silence that Ba’alzamon let deepen before he spoke. “There is now one who walks the world, one who was and will be, but is not yet, the Dragon.”

A startled murmur ran through his listeners.

“The Dragon Reborn! We are to kill him, Great Lord?” That from the Shienaran, hand grasping eagerly at his side where his sword would hang.

“Perhaps,” Ba’alzamon said simply. “And perhaps not. Perhaps he can be turned to my use. Sooner or later it will be so, in this Age or another.”

Jaichim blinked.  _ In this Age or another? I thought the Day of Return was near. What matter to me what happens in another Age if I grow old and die waiting in this one? _ But Ba’alzamon was speaking again.

“Already a bend is forming in the Pattern, one of many points where he who will become the Dragon may be turned to my service. Must be turned! Better that he serve me alive than dead, but alive or dead, serve me he must and will! These three you must know, for each is a thread in the pattern I mean to weave, and it will be up to you to see that they are placed as I command. Study them well, that you will know them.”

Abruptly all sound was gone. Jaichim shifted uneasily, and saw others doing the same. All but the Illianer woman, he realized. With her hands spread over her bosom as if to hide the rounded flesh she exposed, eyes wide, half frightened and half ecstatic, she was nodding eagerly as though to someone face-to-face with her. Sometimes she appeared to give a reply, but Jaichim heard not a word. Suddenly she arched backwards, trembling and rising on her toes. He could not see why she did not fall, unless something unseen held her. Then, just as abruptly, she settled back to her feet and nodded again, bowing, shivering. Even as she straightened, one of the witches wearing a Great Serpent ring gave a start and began nodding.

“So each of us hears his own instructions, and none hears another’s,” Jaichim muttered in frustration. If he knew what even one other was commanded, he might be able to use the knowledge to advantage, but this way ... Impatiently he waited for his turn, forgetting himself enough to stand straight.

One by one the gathering received their orders, each walled in silence yet still giving tantalizing clues, if only he could read them. The man of the Atha’an Miere, the Sea Folk, stiffening with reluctance as he nodded. The Shienaran, his stance bespeaking confusion even while he acquiesced. The Foregater cocking his head in surprise before giving an enviably relaxed shrug. The second witch of Tar Valon, the slender one, stiffening in shock. The Saldaean Lord making a pretence of reluctance as he rubbed thumb to fingers in place of the knife hilt he was not carrying. The Andoran noblewoman listening carefully, if confusedly, and the grey-swathed figure whose sex he could not determine shaking its head before falling to its knees and nodding vigorously. The Falmeran nobleman shook his head, too, and actually clenched a fist. Jaichim was sure the man would die there and then, but Ba’alzamon spoke again, more angrily this time, and the Falmeran fool abased himself in contrite submission to whatever orders he had been given. Some underwent the same convulsion as the Illianer woman, as if pain itself lifted them to toe tips.

“Bors.”

Jaichim jerked as a red mask filled his eyes. He could still see the room, still see the floating shape of Ba’alzamon and the three figures before him, but at the same time all he could see was the red-masked face. Dizzy, he felt as if his skull were splitting open and his eyes were being pushed out of his head.

“Are you faithful ... Bors?”

The hint of mocking in the name sent a chill down his backbone. “I am faithful, Great Lord. I cannot hide from you.”  _ I am faithful! I swear it! _

“No, you cannot.”

The certainty in Ba’alzamon’s voice dried his mouth, but he forced himself to speak. “Command me, Great Lord, and I obey.”

“Firstly, you are to return to Valreis and continue your good works. In fact, I command you to redouble your efforts.”

He stared at Ba’alzamon in puzzlement longer than was wise, then took the excuse of a bow to pull his eyes away. “As you command, Great Lord, so shall it be.”

“Secondly, you will watch for the three young men, and have your followers watch. Be warned; they are dangerous.”

Jaichim glanced at the figures floating in front of Ba’alzamon.  _ How can I do that? I can see them, but I can’t see anything except his face _ . His head felt about to burst. Sweat slicked his hands under his thin gloves, and his shirt clung to his back. “Dangerous, Great Lord? Farmboys? Is one of them the—”

“A sword is dangerous to the man at the point, but not to the man at the hilt. Unless the man holding the sword is a fool, or careless, or unskilled, in which case it is twice as dangerous to him as to anyone else. It is enough that I have told you to know them. It is enough that you obey me.”

“As you command, Great Lord, so shall it be.”

“Thirdly, regarding those who have landed at Toman Head, and the situation in Falmerden. Of this you will speak to no-one. When you return to Orlay ...”

Jaichim realized as he listened that his mouth was sagging open. The instructions made no sense.  _ If I knew what some of the others were told, perhaps I could piece it together _ .

Abruptly he felt his head grasped as though by a giant hand crushing his temples, felt himself being lifted, and the world blew apart in a thousand starbursts, each flash of light becoming an image that fled across his mind or spun and dwindled into the distance before he could more than barely grasp it. An impossible sky of striated clouds, red and yellow and black, racing as if driven by the mightiest wind the world had ever seen. A woman—a girl?—dressed in white receded into blackness and vanished as soon as she appeared. A raven stared him in the eye, knowing him, and was gone. An armoured man in a brutal helm, shaped and painted and gilded like some monstrous, poisonous insect, raised a sword and plunged to one side, beyond his view. A horn, curled and golden, came hurtling out of the far distance. One piercing note it sounded as it flashed toward him, tugging his soul. At the last instant it flashed into a blinding, golden ring of light that passed through him, chilling him beyond death. A wolf leaped from the shadows of lost sight and ripped out his throat. He could not scream. The torrent went on, drowning him, burying him. He could barely remember who he was, or what he was. The skies rained fire, and the moon and stars fell; rivers ran in blood, and the dead walked; the earth split open and fountained molten rock ...

Jaichim found himself half crouching in the chamber with the others, most watching him, all silent. Wherever he looked, up or down or in any direction, the masked face of Ba’alzamon overwhelmed his eyes. The images that had flooded into his mind were fading; he was sure many were already gone from memory. Hesitantly, he straightened, Ba’alzamon always before him.

“Great Lord, what—?”

“Some commands are too important to be known even by he who carries them out.”

Jaichim bent almost double in his bow. “As you command, Great Lord,” he whispered hoarsely, “so shall it be.”

When he straightened, he was alone in silence once more. Another, the Tairen High Lord, nodded and bowed to someone none else saw. The man who called himself Bors put an unsteady hand to his brow, trying to hold on to something of what had burst through his mind, though he was not completely certain he wanted to remember. The last remnant flickered out, and suddenly he was wondering what it was that he was trying to recall.  _ I know there was something, but what? There was something! Wasn’t there? _ He rubbed his hands together, grimacing at the feel of sweat under his gloves, and turned his attention to the three figures hanging suspended before Ba’alzamon’s floating form.

The muscular, curly-haired youth; the farmer with the sword; and the lad with the look of mischief on his face. Already, in his mind, Jaichim had named them the Blacksmith, the Swordsman, and the Trickster.  _ What is their place in the puzzle? They must be important, or Ba’alzamon would not have made them the centre of this gathering _ . But from his orders alone they could all die at any time, and he had to think that some of the others, at least, had orders as deadly for the three.  _ How important are they? _ Blue eyes could mean the nobility of Andor—unlikely in those clothes—and there were Borderlanders with light eyes, as well as some Tairens, not to mention a few from Ghealdan, and, of course ... No, no help there. But yellow eyes?  _ Who are they? What are they? _

He started at a touch on his arm, and looked around to find one of the white-clad servants, a young man, standing by his side. The others were back, too, more than before, one for each of the masked. He blinked. Ba’alzamon was gone. The Myrddraal was gone, too, and only rough stone was where the door it had used had been. The three figures still hung there, though. He felt as if they were staring at him.

“If it please you, my Lord Bors, I will show you to your room.”

Avoiding those dead eyes, he glanced once more at the three figures, then followed. Uneasily he wondered how the youth had known what name to use. It was not until the strange carved doors closed behind him and they had walked a dozen paces that he realized he was alone in the corridor with the servant. His brows drew down suspiciously behind his mask, but before he could open his mouth, the servant spoke.

“The others are also being shown to their rooms, my Lord. If you please, my Lord? Time is short, and our Master is impatient.”

Jaichim ground his teeth, both at the lack of information and at the implication of sameness between himself and the servant, but he followed in silence. Only a fool ranted at a servant, and worse, remembering the fellow’s eyes, he was not sure it would do any good.

_ And how did he know what I was going to ask? _ The servant smiled.

Jaichim did not feel at all comfortable until he was back in the room where he had waited on first arriving, and then not much. Even finding the seals on his saddlebags untouched was small comfort.

The servant stood in the hallway, not entering. “You may change to your own garments if you wish, my Lord. None will see you depart here, nor arrive at your destination, but it may be best to arrive already properly clothed. Someone will come soon to show you the way.”

Untouched by any visible hand, the door swung shut.

The man who called himself Bors shivered in spite of himself. Hastily he undid the seals and buckles of his saddlebags and pulled out his usual cloak. In the back of his mind a small voice wondered if the promised power, even the immortality, was worth another meeting like this, but he laughed it down immediately.  _ For that much power, I would praise the Great Lord of the Dark under the Dome of Truth itself. _ Remembering the commands given him by Ba’alzamon, he fingered the golden, flaring sun worked on the breast of the white cloak, and the red shepherd’s crook behind the sun, symbol of his office in the world of men, and he almost laughed. There was work, great work, to be done in Valreis, and on Almoth Plain.

* * *

 

The gilt-framed mirror reflected the room, the disturbingly patterned mosaics on the walls, the gilded furnishings and fine carpets, the other mirrors and the tapestries. The heavy, polished table set with plates, goblets and utensils of purest gold. A palatial room with broad windows displaying a harsh, dead land beneath a sky wracked by striating clouds of red and black and purple, a sky that still bent to the Great Lord of the Dark’s power, Lews Therin’s imperfect seal be damned.

He wondered how many  _ Atha’an Shadar _ had died carrying those luxuries so far into the Blight, almost to the edge of the Blasted Lands. Ishamael doubtless found it amusing to set them such trivial, deadly tasks, and to watch as they struggled to complete them. He had been a philosopher after all, the most idiotic of all professions. Not a man of science—not a genius!—like Aginor.

The juxtaposition of luxurious excess in this stern fortress of black stone the man had built for himself, disturbed Aginor more than he would ever admit. But then, Ishamael had always terrified him, from the very beginning. He had been mad with power before they were sealed in the Bore, and in the millennia since, he seemed to have convinced himself that he was actually the Great Lord in human form.

Aginor could only wish he had had the freedom of those centuries, instead of the long sleep, with all its endless nightmares. Even if it had meant living in this harsh, barbaric Age, where even such a simple comfort as indoor plumbing was an invention apparently beyond the intellect of the natives.

Gingerly he prodded the disgusting fungous that protruded from his neck.  _ So close to the artery _ . He scarcely dared shudder for fear it might set his life’s blood flowing. His  _ Sysan Odiva _ had done a barber’s job of healing his wounds, the useless thing. If only the One Power could be used to Heal oneself, then he would not be reliant on the efforts of dim-witted assistants, especially the artificial kind. Not that any Healing could restore his legs, not without some very specialised  _ ter’angreal _ . None of which were likely to have survived the Breaking.  _ Damn this benighted Age! _

No amount of fussing would ever restore his appearance. What imprisonment had not ruined, the plants lodged in his flesh had. And that wretched child had made matters worse, stealing the great well called the Eye of the World right out from under Aginor’s nose and using it against him. Crippling him.

Reluctantly, he turned his head to peer at the giant who loomed beside him. With only one good eye there was no way not to make it obvious. After depositing him unceremoniously in a chair near the mirror, Indeallein had placed himself on Aginor’s blind side. No doubt deliberately. When he looked he found the man staring back him. He went shirtless, the better to display his heavy musculature and the multitude of criss-crossing scars that rendered his skin almost grey. His face was as scarred as his body and set in its usual grim frown. And his dark eyes were as empty as the grave Aginor had escaped forever when he pledged his soul to the Shadow.

_ I am one of the Chosen. I am a scientific genius, a geneticist beyond compare, whatever Nagaru’s claims. Many of the most feared creatures in this Age and the last were my creations. They cannot simply ... dispose of me. _

Telling himself that didn’t stop his ancient heart from fluttering nervously in his chest. Or inspire him to meet Indeallein’s dead-eyed stare for long. That one was Ishamael’s creature to the core. And the others were no more likely to come to his aid should Ishamael’s madness inspire him to do something precipitous.

The mirror reflected a woman striding up and down in a dark blood-red gown, her face a combination of rage and disbelief. She was beautiful enough to provoke desire even in Aginor, with a sleekly lush body, suitable for a  _ daien _ dancer in the old days, and a green-eyed ivory oval of a face framed by glossy black hair.

She spoke as she paced. “Emar Dal, Mar Ruois, all gone. Even M’jinn is lost without a trace! I’ve Travelled all over this continent and I can find almost nothing left of the world we knew.” Even in anger Balthamel’s voice had a smoky, seductive edge.

“Doesn’t that suit you? You always preferred a rougher sort of company. It may suit me. Less surveillance means more places to hide.” Moghedien was a very different sort of woman. Her dress was drab of colour and simple of cut, her body slightly stout. She had shoulder-length brown hair and pale skin that was more lined than her age would inspire, her dark eyes twitched nervously even here among allies. Perhaps especially here.

Balthamel stopped her pacing and came to stand over Moghedien’s chair. Even if the Spider had been standing the other woman would have loomed over her. They were both of no more than average height, but one was a woman’s average and the other still a man’s.

“Does it suit me? To lose all my contacts, to have everything that we had once hoped to rule destroyed, leaving us with a strange new world where the very language is alien? What kind of stupid question is that? Does it suit me!”

Moghedien’s eyes flashed hatred. But only briefly. She was never one for direct confrontations. The knife in the back or the poisoned winecup were more her style. “The language is easy enough to learn. It is derived from our own, though simplified greatly,” she muttered, her gaze was drawn to the window as though thinking of taking flight. No, he would get no help there.

A small figure appeared upon Balthamel’s shoulder, a naked boy-child no bigger than the size of her hand. His slender body glowed with a blue light that intensified when he spoke in his irritatingly cheerful voice. “That’s true! It took only minutes for me to translate. The hardest part was scanning all those books that our friend Ishy prepared.”

Aginor smiled slightly. He doubted “Ishy” would find the little wretch amusing, and anything that distracted him from the debacle at the Eye of the World could only help Aginor’s cause. If Balthamel was going to be rude enough to leave her  _ Sysan Odiva _ active—and on holographic display no less—then he certainly wasn’t going to complain.

“That’s not the point, Puki,” Balthamel sighed. “I suppose I’ll just have to start over. Did you record all the maps from the library?”

“You bet, mistress!” The fake boy took flight on tiny fake wings. He hovered around her as she resumed her pacing.

They four were the only Chosen to have fallen free of the Bore thus far. The seal Lews Therin had placed upon it had weakened over time, but it still held many of their fellows prisoner. None of the three were fond of Aginor, no more than Ishamael was.  _ But they need me. They do. _

The great double doors opened seemingly of their own accord. Even Aginor, as skilled a channeler as there was, felt and saw nothing. Ishamael strode into the room. To his surprise the man wore a small, satisfied smile. He also wore rich, loose fitting robes of red and black silk that did not quite hide the way he favoured his left arm. Aginor was not the only one who had taken harm from the boy’s untrained flailing. Perhaps there was hope yet.

Ishamael came to a halt at the head of the table. “Our numbers grow,” he announced with satisfaction. “Lanfear and Asmodean have been spat back into the world.”

Indeallein gave no reaction. But the two women grimaced simultaneously.

“Lanfear. The ‘Mistress of  _ Tel’aran’rhiod’ _ ,” grunted Moghedien.

“The woman of women walks among us once more,” added Balthamel with a wry smile. Aginor had sometimes wondered how deep the enmity there truly went. Was it coincidence that Balthamel’s female form so closely resembled Lanfear’s? Before her surgery, when she had been the man called Eval Ramman, she had been at least an acquaintance of Lanfear’s. At least. And the form she had chosen to be remodelled as resembled the Daughter of the Night’s in a great many ways. She shook her head slowly. “Will they be joining us?”

Ishamael, or Ba’alzamon as he often called himself now, shook his head. “No. The reawakening is a confused time, and I will not waste my breath explaining every detail of this ‘new’ world. Again. Let Bubo and Aigis distil the contents of my library to them.” His pure black eyes gazed afar. “I will have a task for Lanfear, once she has adapted herself to the new setting.”

A soft little laugh escaped Aginor. He noticed that the other man did not bother to mention Asmodean. The Musician was a buffoon, the only noteworthy thing about him was that he had somehow managed to survive the War of the Powers and be present for the meeting at Shayol Ghul on that most fateful of days. Surely Aginor’s genius must shine all the brighter in the eyes of his fellow Chosen when a useless fool like Asmodean was the alternative.

His laugh turned to a grimace of pain. The shoots that malformed Nym had implanted him with ran deep into his flesh, twisting painfully every time he moved. He pressed his hands to his side and held very still. Small shafts of wood poked against his palms, protruding from between his ribs. The regeneration afforded by what was left of his  _ valdarhei _ had preserved his internal organs but the pain was terrible.

“Are you feeling unwell, Aginor? Or should we call you Gobhatsin now? You look more plant than man of a sudden. If man you ever were.” Ishamael’s smile was gone. His glare warmed Aginor’s face from across the room.

“How was I supposed to know a glorified house plant would attack me?” he gasped. “It wasn’t my fault, any or you would have been as surprised.” The Nym had been made to tend their gardens, nothing more. When the creature had presumed to lay hands upon him, Aginor had been as shocked as he would be if the chair he now twisted around in decided to kick him for the temerity. “And I slew him for his insolence, I might remind you.” He had killed some apprentice Aes Sedai girl, too, but he well knew how his fellow Chosen would respond if he boasted of such a small thing. She had been no-one important, killing her had made no difference at all.

“The so-called Green Man was nothing!” roared Ba’alzamon. “The Eye of the World is the deepest well ever Made and you allowed Lews Therin to drain it dry! It is bound to him now! So long as he lives it will be no more than an ornament to any other.”

Hunger made Balthamel’s eyes seem even greener. “Where is this boy you claim is the Dragon’s reincarnation? I will rid us of him and claim the Eye for myself.”

Ba’alzamon’s fury went from hot to cold in an instant. “No. Not unless your interests include a desire to be flayed alive. A great many plans, long in the making, revolve around the Dragon Reborn. His death is not our goal.”

Balthamel shrugged uneasily under Ba’alzamon’s black stare. She could still channel  _ saidin, _ of course, whatever the alterations to her body, but that would not help her against the power the lunatic in their midst could bring to bear. “If we aren’t going to just kill him, what  _ are _ we going to do?” she asked with a sour twist to her lips.

Ishamael smiled. The others gathered close as he began to explain. Mad or not, Ishamael had enjoyed the Great Lord’s favour in the old world, and he had kept that favour for three millennia now. Even Aginor leaned towards him as he outlined the tasks each was to perform. He doubted the man was telling them even half of what he truly planned, but that was no more than could be expected. He would have gone to join them at the table, but Indeallein did not offer to lift him again and asking for help would be far too humiliating.  _ I will have a wheeled chair made for myself, if I survive this meeting _ , he thought, as Indeallein nodded grim assent to Ishamael’s orders.

The scarred brute remained behind after the other two had departed to their tasks.

They stood together in silence, the madman staring at things only he could see, and the warrior who served him staring at nothing. Aginor shifted on his seat as he waited. Each movement sent a new stab of pain through his body but try as he might he could not force himself to be still.

At last, Ishamael’s gaze focused and he pointed a finger at Aginor. “Bring him.” He turned and strode from the room in a swirl of blood-red silk.

Indeallein trudged towards him with a look of complete disinterest on his face. His unkempt, black braids swayed slightly as he bent to lift Aginor in his powerful arms. That close he could feel  _ saidin _ fill the man; their strengths were evenly matched, but Indeallein had no  _ valdarhei _ and Aginor had set his to full defence. Yet, even if he killed the brute, where could he go?  _ They need me. I am Ishar Morrad Chuain. I am Aginor, the Vivisectionist! I am a genius! _

He was carried down a dark stone corridor to a splintered door that was indistinguishable from the twenty others they had passed. A stairwell waited on the other side, the black stone steps looking disturbingly slick under the weak light of the torches that burned fitfully in irregular sconces.  _ These people can’t even light their own homes properly. How can I work in conditions such as this? I am lost in a backwards world, where brilliance goes unrewarded and the crude are lauded for their animalistic flexing _ . It was enough to break the hardest heart.

Down and down the brute carried him, past yet more identical doors and over more black steps, until he was certain they were beneath ground level. Where the dungeons awaited. At last, Indeallein came to a halt before yet another identical door. Aginor was filled with  _ saidin _ , ready to lash out at anything and everything. The empty-eyed creature could not help but be aware of that, but he showed no concern at all.

Instead he pulled the splintered wood door open and revealed a second door. This one was made of metal, old metal, but it appeared to have been strengthened and preserved; no rust marred its dull, grey surface.

The keypad beside it did not light up at Indeallein’s touch, but once he had input a six-digit code the door unlocked with a loud clank.  _ What is this? _ The metal door swung slowly open.

Beyond was a vast, well-lit chamber filled with familiar wonders. Refrigerators and mixers, microscopes and cookers. There were long tables covered with glassware—poorly arranged and much-too-dusty glassware—but glassware nonetheless. So many  _ ter’angreal _ had been gathered in that room; he almost did not dare to hope that they were all still functional. There was even what looked to be a working clean room at the far end of the chamber! Several doorways fitted with closed metal hatches promised more riches beyond.

Ishamael stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by the horded treasures of a dead Age, hands folded behind his back and a contemptuous sneer on his lips.

Aginor’s elation curdled at the sight. The brute carried him to a cushioned chair near one of the lab tables and dumped him into it.

Ishamael regarded him coldly. “You failed. And because of that failure Lews Therin has grown stronger. Had you succeeded all of this would have been yours, all that I have been able to preserve of the old laboratories. But now ...” He gestured to Indeallein and a heavy fist came crashing down on Aginor’s ravaged flesh, driving the twisted roots even deeper inside.

He screamed.  _ Saidin _ was gone from him, blocked away by Ba’alzamon’s power. “Please,” he whimpered. He was not used to pain. Pain was a thing for soldiers and workers, not for thinkers of his calibre. “There is more I could do. Creatures lost to the war that I could recreate. Even better ones that I might yet design. Please! I’m too smart to die!”

Ishamael threw back his head and laughed manically; great, deep-throated howls that echoed in the cavernous chamber. Indeallein did not so much as blink.

When at last his laughter abated, Ishamael turned his eyes of deepest darkness to Aginor and said, “Death is what we hope for, Aginor. There are much worse fates for which we should reserve our fear. Others among the Chosen might find as much use for this place as you. And I am patient ...” He paused, and smiled cruelly. “But I will allow you one final chance. Impress me, Aginor. Craft for me horrors such as this world has not seen in living memory. Show them the nightmare that is their existence ... and you may share it with them.”

Aginor met those mad eyes with his lone remaining one. Sweat beaded on his wrinkled, parchment-like skin. “I will. I will. The terrors of old will be nothing compared to what we unleash on the world this time,” he gasped hastily. Anything that kept him alive even an hour longer was a perfect wonder. The fates of these savages, and of his fellow Chosen, did not matter to him in the slightest.

“Good, good,” said Ishamael musingly, his attention drifting elsewhere. “He will see. I will make him see.”


	3. Searchers

CHAPTER 4: Searchers

As soon as the door closed behind Leane the Amyrlin stood, and Moiraine felt a momentary tingle in her skin as the other woman channelled the One Power. For an instant, the Amyrlin Seat seemed to her to be surrounded by a nimbus of bright light.

“I don’t know that any of the others have your old trick,” the Amyrlin Seat said, lightly touching the blue stone on Moiraine’s forehead with one finger, “but most of us have some small tricks remembered from childhood. In any event, no-one can hear what we say now.”

Suddenly she threw her arms around Moiraine, a warm hug between old friends; Moiraine hugged back as warmly.

“You are the only one, Moiraine, with whom I can remember who I was. Even Leane always acts as if I had become the stole and the staff, even when we are alone, as if we’d never giggled together as Novices. Sometimes I wish we still were Novices, you and I. Still innocent enough to see it all as a gleeman’s tale come true, still innocent enough to think we would find men—they would be princes, remember, handsome and strong and gentle?—who could bear to live with women of an Aes Sedai’s power. Still innocent enough to dream of the happy ending to the gleeman’s tale, of living our lives as other women do, just with more than they.”

“We are Aes Sedai, Siuan. We have our duty. Even if you and I had not been born to channel, would you give it up for a home and a husband, even a prince? I do not believe it. That is a village goodwife’s dream. Not even the Greens go so far.”

The Amyrlin stepped back. “No, I would not give it up. Most of the time, no. But there have been times I envied that village goodwife. At this moment, I almost do. Moiraine, if anyone, even Leane discovers what we plan, we will both be Stilled. And I can’t say they would be wrong to do it.”

Stilled. The word seemed to quiver in the air, almost visible. When it was done to a man who could channel the Power, who must be stopped before madness drove him to the destruction of all around him, it was called Gentling, but for Aes Sedai it was Stilling. Stilled. No longer able to channel the flow of the One Power. Able to sense  _ saidar _ , the female half of the True Source, but no longer having the ability to touch it. Remembering what was gone forever. So seldom had it been done that every Novice was required to learn the name of each Aes Sedai since the Breaking of the World who had been Stilled, and her crime, but none could think of it without a shudder. Women bore being Stilled no better than men did being Gentled.

Moiraine had known the risk from the first, and she knew it was necessary. That did not mean it was pleasant to dwell on. Her eyes narrowed, and only the gleam in them showed her anger, and her worry. “Leane would follow you to the slopes of Shayol Ghul, Siuan, and into the Pit of Doom. You cannot think she would betray you.”

“No. But then, would she think it betrayal? Is it betrayal to betray a traitor? Do you never think of that?”

“Never. What we do, Siuan, is what must be done. We have both known it for nearly twenty years. Tamra Ospenya knew it, too. We are only continuing what she started.”

“What she was murdered for starting,” said Siuan grimly.

_ Almost certainly _ , thought Moiraine. Tamra had been the Amyrlin when she and Siuan were raised to Aes Sedai. The Amyrlin who first learned that the fulfilment of the prophecies had begun. Neither she nor any of those senior Aes Sedai she had entrusted that knowledge to had lived longer than a year afterwards. Only Siuan and Moiraine had escaped the faceless assassins, two newly raised Sisters whom no-one suspected of knowing the truth. Alone they had worked to find the Dragon and to prepare for what must come of his Rebirth. And now, at last, they had found him.  _ As difficult as these years have been, they will look simple compared to the task ahead of us _ .

She let nothing of her worry show on her face. “The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, and you and I were chosen for this by the Pattern. We are a part of the Prophecies, and the Prophecies must be fulfilled. Must!”

“The Prophecies must be fulfilled. We were taught that they will be, and must be, and yet that fulfilment is treason to everything else we were taught. Some would say to everything we stand for.” Rubbing her arms, the Amyrlin Seat walked over to peer through the narrow arrowslit at the garden below. She touched the curtains. “Here in the women’s apartments they hang draperies to soften the rooms, and they plant beautiful gardens, but there is no part of this place not purpose-made for battle, death, and killing.” She continued in the same pensive tone. “Only twice since the Breaking of the World has the Amyrlin Seat been stripped of stole and staff.”

Moiraine watched her closely. “Tetsuan, who betrayed Manetheren to its doom for jealousy of Queen Eldrene’s powers, and Bonwhin, who tried to use Artur Hawkwing as a puppet to control the world and so nearly destroyed Tar Valon.”  _ Siuan must be tense indeed if those two are on her mind _ .

The Amyrlin continued her study of the garden. “Both of the Red, and both replaced by an Amyrlin from the Blue. The reason there has not been an Amyrlin chosen from the Red since Bonwhin, and the reason the Red Ajah will take any pretext to pull down an Amyrlin from the Blue, all wrapped neatly together. I have no wish to be the third to lose the stole and the staff, Moiraine. For you, of course, it would mean being Stilled and put outside the Shining Walls.”

“Elaida, for one, would never let me off so easily.” Moiraine watched her friend’s back intently. They had found few opportunities to meet alone in the years since their search began, but surely Siuan could not have changed so much.  _ Light, what has come over her? She has never been like this before. Where is her strength, her fire? _ “But it will not come to that, Siuan.”

The other woman went on as if she had not spoken. “For me, it would be different. Even Stilled an Amyrlin who has been pulled down cannot be allowed to wander about loose; she might be seen as a martyr, become a rallying point for opposition. Tetsuan and Bonwhin were kept in the White Tower as servants. Scullery maids, who could be pointed to as cautions as to what can happen to even the mightiest. No-one can rally around a woman who must scrub floors and pots all day. Pity her, yes, but not rally to her.”

Eyes blazing, Moiraine leaned her fists on the table. “Look at me, Siuan. Look at me! Are you saying that you want to give up, after all these years, after all we have done? Give up, and let the world go? And all for fear of a switching for not getting the pots clean enough!” She put into it all the scorn she could summon, and was relieved when her friend spun to face her. The strength was still there, strained but still there. Those clear blue eyes were as hot with anger as her own.

“I remember which of the two of us squealed the loudest when we were switched as Novices. You had lived a soft life in Cairhien, Moiraine. Not like working a fishing boat.” Abruptly Siuan slapped the table with a loud crack. “No, I am not suggesting giving up, but neither do I propose to watch everything slide out of our hands while I can do nothing! Most of my troubles with the Hall stem from you. Even the Greens wonder why I haven’t called you to the Tower and taught you a little discipline. Half the sisters with me think you should be handed over to the Reds, and if that happens, you will wish you were a Novice again, with nothing worse to look forward to than a switching. Light! If any of them remember we were friends as Novices, I’d be there beside you.

“We had a plan! A plan, Moiraine! Locate the boy and bring him to Tar Valon, where we could hide him, keep him safe and guide him. Since you last left the Tower, I have had only two messages from you. Two! I feel as if I’m trying to sail the Fingers of the Dragon in the dark. One message to say you were entering the Theren, going to this village, this Emond’s Field. Soon, I thought. He’s found and she’ll have him in hand soon. Then word from Caemlyn to say you were coming to Shienar, to Fal Dara, not Tar Valon. Fal Dara, with the Blight almost close enough to touch. Fal Dara, where Trollocs raid and Myrddraal ride as near every day as makes no difference. Nearly twenty years of planning and searching, and you toss all our plans practically in the Dark One’s face. Are you mad?”

Now that she had stirred life in the other woman, Moiraine returned to outward calm, herself. Calm, but firm insistence, too. “The Pattern pays no heed to human plans, Siuan. With all our scheming, we forgot what we were dealing with.  _ Ta’veren _ . Elaida is wrong. Artur Paendrag Tanreall was never this strongly  _ ta’veren _ . The Wheel will weave the Pattern around this young man as it wills, whatever our plans.”

The anger left Amyrlin’s face, replaced by white-faced shock. “It sounds as if you are saying we might as well give up. Do you now suggest standing aside and watching the world burn?”

“No, Siuan. Never standing aside.”  _ Yet the world will burn, Siuan, one way or another, whatever we do. You could never see that _ . “But we must now realize that our plans are precarious things. We have even less control than we thought. Perhaps only a fingernail’s grip. The winds of destiny are blowing, Siuan, and we must ride them where they take us.”

The Amyrlin shivered as if she felt those winds icy on the back of her neck. Her hands went to the flattened cube of gold, blunt, capable fingers finding precise points in the complex designs. Cunningly balanced, the top lifted back to reveal a curled, golden horn nestled within a space designed to hold it. She lifted the instrument and traced the flowing silver script, in the Old Tongue, inlaid around the flaring mouth.

“ ‘The grave is no bar to my call,’ ” she translated, so softly she seemed to be speaking to herself. “The Horn of Valere, made to call dead heroes back from the grave. And prophecy said it would only be found just in time for the Last Battle.” Abruptly she thrust the Horn back into its niche and closed the lid as if she could no longer bear the sight of it. “Agelmar pushed it into my hands as soon as the Welcome was done. He said he was afraid to go into the strongroom any longer, with it there. The temptation was too great, he said. To sound the Horn himself and lead the host that answered its call north through the Blight to level Shayol Ghul itself and put an end to the Dark One. He burned with the ecstasy of glory, and it was that, he said, that told him it was not to be him, must not be him. He could not wait to be rid of it, yet he wanted it still.”

Moiraine nodded. Agelmar was familiar with the Prophecy of the Horn; most who fought the Dark One were. “ ‘Let whosoever sounds me think not of glory, but only of salvation.’ ”

“Salvation.” The Amyrlin laughed bitterly. “From the look in Agelmar’s eyes, he didn’t know whether he was giving away salvation or rejecting the condemnation of his own soul. He only knew he had to be rid of it before it burned him up. He has tried to keep it secret, but he says there are rumours in the keep already. I do not feel his temptation, yet the Horn still makes my skin crawl. He will have to take it back to the strongroom until I leave. I could not sleep with it even in the next room.” She rubbed frown lines from her forehead and sighed. “And it was not to be found until just before the Last Battle. Can it be that close? I thought, hoped, we would have more time.”

“The Karaethon Cycle.”

“Yes, Moiraine. You do not have to remind me. I’ve lived with the Prophecies of the Dragon as long as you.” The Amyrlin shook her head. “Never more than one false Dragon in a generation since the Breaking, and now three loose in the world at one time, and three more in the past two years. The Pattern demands a Dragon because the Pattern weaves toward Tarmon Gai’don. Sometimes doubt fills me, Moiraine.” She said it musingly, as if wondering at it, and went on in the same tone. “What if Logain was the one? He could channel, before the Reds brought him to the White Tower, and we Gentled him. So can Mazrim Taim, the man in Saldaea. What if it is him? There are sisters in Saldaea already; he may be taken by now. What if we have been wrong since the start? What happens if the Dragon Reborn is Gentled before the Last Battle even begins? Even prophecy can fail if the one prophesied is slain or Gentled. And then we face the Dark One naked to the storm.”

“Neither of them is the one, Siuan. The Pattern does not demand a Dragon, but the one true Dragon. Until he proclaims himself, the Pattern will continue to throw up false Dragons, but after that there will be no others. If Logain or the other were the one, there would be no others.”

“ ‘For he shall come like the breaking dawn, and shatter the world again with his coming, and make it anew.’ Either we go naked in the storm, or cling to a protection that will scourge us. The Light help us all.” The Amyrlin shook herself as if to throw off her own words. Her face was set, as though bracing for a blow. “You could never hide what you were thinking from me as you do from everyone else, Moiraine. You have more to tell me, and nothing good.”

For answer Moiraine took the leather pouch from her belt and upended it, spilling the contents on the table. It appeared to be only a heap of fragmented pottery, shiny black and white.

The Amyrlin Seat touched one bit curiously, and her breath caught. “ _ Cuendillar _ .”

“Heartstone,” Moiraine agreed. The making of  _ cuendillar _ had been lost at the Breaking of the World, but what had been made of heartstone had survived the cataclysm. Even those objects swallowed by the earth or sunk in the sea had survived; they must have. No known force could break  _ cuendillar _ once it was complete; even the One Power directed against heartstone only made it stronger. Except that some power had broken this.

The Amyrlin hastily assembled the pieces. What they formed was a disk the size of a man’s hand, half blacker than pitch and half whiter than snow, the colours meeting along a sinuous line, unfaded by age. The ancient symbol of Aes Sedai, before the world was broken, when men and women wielded the Power together. Half of it was now called the Flame of Tar Valon; the other half was scrawled on doors, the Dragon’s Fang, to accuse those within of evil. Only seven like it had been made; everything ever made of heartstone was recorded in the White Tower, and those seven were remembered above all. Siuan Sanche stared at it as she would have at a viper on her pillow.

“One of the seals on the Dark One’s prison,” she said finally, reluctantly. It was those seven seals over which the Amyrlin Seat was supposed to be Watcher. The secret hidden from the world, if the world ever thought of it, was that no Amyrlin Seat had known where any of the seals were since the Trolloc Wars.

“We know the Dark One is stirring, Siuan. We know his prison cannot stay sealed forever. Human work can never match the Creator’s. We knew he has touched the world again, even if, thank the Light, only indirectly. Darkfriends multiply, and what we called evil but ten years ago seems almost caprice compared with what now is done every day.”

“If the seals are already breaking ... We may have no time at all.”

“Little enough. But that little may be enough. It will have to be.”

The Amyrlin touched the fractured seal, and her voice grew tight, as if she were forcing herself to speak. “I saw the boy, you know, in the courtyard during the Welcome. It is one of my Talents, seeing  _ ta’veren _ . A rare Talent these days, even more rare than  _ ta’veren _ , and certainly not of much use. A tall boy, a fairly handsome young man. Not much different from any young man you might see in any town.” She paused to draw breath. “Moiraine, he blazed like the sun. I’ve seldom been afraid in my life, but the sight of him made me afraid right down to my toes. I wanted to cower, to howl. I could barely speak. Amalisa thought I was angry with her, I said so little. That young man ... he’s the one we have sought these twenty years.”

There was a hint of question in her voice. Moiraine answered it. “He is.”

“Are you certain? Can he ...? Can he ... channel the One Power?”

Her mouth strained around the words, and Moiraine felt the tension, too, a twisting inside, a cold clutching at her heart. She kept her face smooth, though. “He can.” A man wielding the One Power. That was a thing no Aes Sedai could contemplate without fear. It was a thing the whole world feared.  _ And I will loose it on the world _ . “Rand al’Thor will stand before the world as the Dragon Reborn.”

The Amyrlin shuddered. “Rand al’Thor. It does not sound like a name to inspire fear and set the world on fire.” She gave another shiver and rubbed her arms briskly, but her eyes suddenly shone with a purposeful light. “If he is the one, then we truly may have time enough. But is he safe here? I have two Red sisters with me, and I can no longer answer for Green or Yellow, either. The Light consume me, I can’t answer for any of them, not with this. Even Verin and Serafelle would leap on him the way they would a scarlet adder in a nursery.”

“He is safe, for the moment.”

The Amyrlin waited for her to say more. The silence stretched, until it was plain she would not. Finally the Amyrlin said, “You say our old plan is useless. What do you suggest now?”

“I have purposely let him think I no longer have any interest in him, that he may go where he pleases for all of me.” She raised her hands as the Amyrlin opened her mouth. “It was necessary, Siuan. Rand al’Thor was raised in the Theren, where Manetheren’s stubborn blood flows in every vein, and his own blood is like rock beside clay compared to Manetheren’s. He must be handled gently, or he will bolt in any direction but the one we want.”

“Then we’ll handle him like a newborn babe. We’ll wrap him in swaddling clothes and play with his toes, if that’s what you think we need. But to what immediate purpose?”

“His two friends, Matrim Cauthon and Perrin Aybara, are ripe to see the world before they sink back into the obscurity of the Theren. If they can sink back; they are  _ ta’veren _ , too, if lesser than he. I will induce them to carry the Horn of Valere to Illian.” She hesitated, frowning. “There is ... a problem with Mat. He carries a dagger from Shadar Logoth.”

“Shadar Logoth! Light, why did you ever let them get near that place. Every stone of it is tainted. There isn’t a pebble safe to carry away. Light help us, if Mordeth touched the boy ...” The Amyrlin sounded as though she were strangling. “If that happened, the world would be doomed.”

“But it did not, Siuan. We do what we must from necessity, and it was necessary. I have done enough so that Mat will not infect others, but he had the dagger too long before I knew. The link is still there. I had thought I must take him to Tar Valon to cure it, but with so many sisters present, it might be done here. So long as there are eleven you can trust not to see Darkfriends where there are none and you have a  _ sa’angreal _ of sufficient strength.”

Suddenly the Amyrlin Seat gave a wry grin “The Hall has gotten possessive of such treasures, Moiraine. None were allowed to be risked on the river. They want the  _ angreal _ you carry back as well. There are not very many of them left, and you are now considered ... unreliable.”

Moiraine smiled, but it did not touch her eyes. “They will think worse of me before I am done. Mat would have leaped at the chance to be so big a part of the legend of the Horn, but if he must go to Tar Valon so be it. Perrin should not be too hard to convince. He needs something to take his mind off his own troubles. Rand knows what he is—some of it, at least; a little—and he is afraid of it, naturally. He wants to go off somewhere alone, where he cannot hurt anyone. He says he will never wield the Power again, but he fears not being able to stop it.”

“As well he might. Easier to give up drinking water.”

“Exactly. And he wants to be free from Aes Sedai.” Moiraine gave a small, mirthless smile. “Offered the chance to leave Aes Sedai behind and still stay with his friend a while longer, he should be eager enough.”

“But how is he leaving Aes Sedai behind? Surely you must travel with him. We can’t lose him now, Moiraine.”

“I cannot travel with him.”  _ It is a long way from Fal Dara to Illian, but he has travelled almost as far already _ . “He must be let off the leash for a time. There is no help for it. I have had all of their old clothes burned. There has been too much opportunity for some shred of what they were wearing to have fallen into the wrong hands. I will cleanse them before they leave; they will not even realize it has been done. There will be no chance they can be tracked that way, and the only other threat of that kind is locked away here in the dungeon.” The Amyrlin, midway in nodding approval, gave her a questioning look, but she did not pause. “They will travel as safely as I can manage, Siuan. And when Rand needs me in Illian, I will be there, and I will see that it is he who presents the Horn to the Council of Nine and the Assemblage. I will see to everything in Illian. Siuan, the Illianers would follow the Dragon, or Ba’alzamon himself, if he came bearing the Horn of Valere, and so will the greater part of those gathered for the Hunt. The true Dragon Reborn will not need to gather a following before nations move against him. He will begin with a nation around him and an army at his back.”

The Amyrlin dropped back into her chair, but immediately leaned forward. She seemed caught between weariness and hope. “But will he proclaim himself? If he’s afraid ... The Light knows he should be, Moiraine, but men who name themselves as the Dragon want the power. If he does not ...”

“I have the means to see him named Dragon whether he wills it or not. And even if I somehow fail, the Pattern itself will see him named Dragon whether he wills it or not. Remember, he is  _ ta’veren _ , Siuan. He has no more control over his fate than a candle wick has over the flame.”

The Amyrlin sighed. “It’s risky, Moiraine. Risky. But my father used to say, ‘Girl, if you won’t take a chance, you’ll never win a copper.’ We have plans to make. Sit down; this won’t be done quickly. I will send for wine and cheese.”

Moiraine shook her head. “We have been closeted alone too long already. If any did try listening and found your Warding, they will be wondering what you are hiding. It is not worth the risk. We can contrive another meeting tomorrow.”  _ Besides, my dearest friend, I cannot tell you everything, and I cannot risk letting you know I am holding anything back _ .

Siuan sighed. “I suppose you are right. But first thing in the morning. There’s so much I have to know.”

“The morning,” Moiraine agreed. The Amyrlin rose, and they hugged again.

Neither woman wanted to be the first to relax her embrace. They had been closer than sisters since they were scarcely more than children and who knew how many more times they would be able to be alone like this in these troubled days. A heat grew between them. Moiraine did not delude herself into thinking it was merely friendship.

She did not jump when Siuan’s strong hands reached down and squeezed her bottom. But she did open her eyes and lean back far enough to look into the other woman’s clear blue eyes. The old, familiar hunger awaited her there. She cupped the Amyrlin’s face gently and kissed her lips.

Comforting warmth and tingling desire brought a flush to Moiraine’s flesh. Her tongue sought Siuan’s and they danced their favourite dance.

The Amyrlin broke the kiss with a gasp. “There’s still time. A little longer won’t raise too many suspicions.”

“If we are fast ...”

Siuan grinned wryly. “Considering how long it has been, I can guarantee it’ll be fast.”

Moiraine needed little persuading. They had come so far, done so much. They deserved a little celebration. And she had missed her sorely.

Siuan took her by the hand and pulled her to the far side of the table, where they would be hidden from the doorway. Not that anyone was likely to intrude on a private audience with the Amyrlin, but they had not gotten as far as they had be being reckless. They sank to the soft carpet, kissing, caressing. Siuan’s hands combed through Moiraine’s hair, sending delightful little shivers down her spine. She reached out and gave the other woman’s breast a gentle squeeze.

Siuan’s touch grew more insistent. She dragged up Moiraine’s skirts and rubbed her sex through her silken smallclothes. It was not long before she slipped her hand down her underwear, combing through the soft hair and probing the warm slit between her legs. She found her already sopping wet. Moiraine felt the woman’s smile against her lips.

She set about returning the favour, exposing the Amyrlin’s legs, pale above her woollen stockings, and putting her hand down the front of her drawers. The hair on Siuan’s sex was rougher than hers, but the woman’s arousal matched her own. Moiraine’s fingers slipped easily inside.

They had little time to spend on foreplay, unfortunately. The two old pillow-friends fucked each other with an impassioned need, their stiff fingers plunging in and out of each other’s wet holes, their kisses no longer gentle.

Moiraine located Siuan’s soft nub and stroked it insistently with her thumb, bringing gasps of pleasure from the other woman, which quickly grew louder.

True to her word, Siuan finished fast. As her climax came upon her she clutched Moiraine’s breast hard through the fabric of her dress and arched her back, “Bloody fish guts!” she yelled.

Moiraine couldn’t help but give a light laugh. Siuan had not always been the most romantic of lovers. Whenever she forgot herself the habits, and sayings, of her childhood often came back in force.

The Amyrlin bit her lip and made small, pleased—and pleasing!—sounds as she writhed on the carpet in the aftermath of her climax. The tension seemed to flow out of her. Her fingers rested comfortably inside Moiraine. She rained kisses across the woman’s ageless face.

“Amused are you? Well let’s see how sweetly you sing then.” Siuan put her on her back and knelt over her. She pulled Moiraine’s underwear down over her hips and then used them to push her legs upwards, leaving her bottom and her sex exposed to the Amyrlin’s eyes ... and mouth.

She let out a long sigh as Siuan kissed her lower lips and slipped her tongue inside. “I’ve missed you,” she whispered, and felt her smile once more.

Sprawled on the carpet with her feet in the air, Moiraine allowed herself to truly relax for the first time in what felt like years. And, in truth, had been years.  _ We did it. One lost child in all the wide world, and we found him in time _ . She took Siuan’s hand in hers as the Amyrlin licked her sex with the assured precision of long intimacy.

Her soft gasps grew into wanton moans as Siuan administered to her. She had never liked being intimate in public, but here in the privacy of the Amyrlin’s rooms she could let herself go.

“That’s what I like to hear,” the woman murmured.

She raised her head to look down at her crotch. Siuan’s pretty blue eyes stared up at her over the dark bush, her mouth working hard against Moiraine’s sex.

Her climax stole up on her like a thief in the night. She cried out in shock and pleasure, staring right into Siuan’s eyes as she did so. Then she collapsed on the carpet like, as Siuan would no doubt say, a boned fish.

“Light’s mercy, but I needed that,” she moaned.

Her oldest friend and lover came and lay beside her. They embraced and held each other close. “We both did,” said Siuan.

They could not remain so long, however, before the reality of their situation intruded. “We really should not be together in private like this,” Moiraine said regretfully. “Some of our Sisters will still remember how close we were as Novices. And too few will understand the necessity of what we have done; and what we must yet do.”

The Amyrlin sighed. “I know. Fix yourself up and put on an appropriately chastened look before you go. We will talk more tomorrow.”

They clambered to their feet, adjusting their dresses as they did so. Siuan shared her washbasin as they cleaned their hands and faces and tidied their hair.

When she was done, Moiraine fixed the Amyrlin with a confident stare. “It will be well, my old friend. We have come so far, in defiance of the odds against us. We will see it through to the end.”

“I hope so. Not that it matters. Once you find yourself swimming with a shark, there’s nothing left but to make for shore and not look back,” said Siuan.

Leane gave Moiraine a sharp look when she came out into the anteroom, then darted into the Amyrlin’s chamber. Moiraine tried to put on a chastened face, as if she had endured one of the Amyrlin’s infamous upbraidings—most women, however strong-willed, returned from those big-eyed and weak-kneed—but the expression was foreign to her. She looked more angry than anything else, which served much the same purpose. She was only vaguely aware of the other women in the outer room; she thought some had gone and others come since she went in, but she barely looked at them. The hour was growing late, and there was much to be done before the morning came. Much, before she spoke to the Amyrlin Seat again.

Quickening her step, she moved deeper into the keep.


	4. The Shadow in Shienar

CHAPTER 5: The Shadow in Shienar

Afternoon shadows gave way to evening as Liandrin made her way through the women’s apartments. Beyond the arrowslits, darkness grew and pressed on the light from the lamps in the corridor. Twilight was a troubled time for Liandrin of late, that and dawn. At dawn the day was born, just as twilight gave birth to night, but at dawn, night died, and at twilight, day. The Dark One’s power was rooted in death; he gained power from death, and at those times she thought she could feel his power stirring. Something stirred in the half dark, at least. Something she almost thought she could catch if she turned quickly enough, something she was sure she could see if she looked hard enough.

Serving women in black-and-gold curtsied as she passed, but she did not respond. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, and did not see them.

At the door she sought, she paused for a quick glance up and down the hall. The only women in sight were servants; there were no men, of course. She pushed open the door and went in without knocking.

The outer room of the Lady Amalisa’s chambers was brightly lit, and a blazing fire on the hearth held back the chill of the Shienaran night. Amalisa and her ladies sat about the room, in chairs and on the layered carpets, listening while one of their number, standing, read aloud to them. It was  _ The Dance of the Hawk and the Hummingbird _ , by Teven Aerwin, which purported to set forth the proper conduct of men toward women and women toward men. Liandrin’s mouth tightened; she certainly had not read it, but she had heard as much as she needed about it. Amalisa and her ladies greeted each pronouncement with gales of laughter, falling against each other and drumming their heels on the carpets like girls.

The reader was the first to become aware of Liandrin’s presence. She cut off with a surprised widening of her eyes. The others turned to see what she was staring at, and silence replaced laughter. All but Amalisa scrambled to their feet, hastily smoothing hair and skirts.

The Lady Amalisa rose gracefully, with a smile. “You honour us with your presence, Liandrin. This is a most pleasant surprise. I did not expect you until tomorrow. I thought you would want to rest after your long jour—”

Liandrin cut her off sharply, addressing the air. “I will speak to the Lady Amalisa alone. All of you will leave. Now.”

There was a moment of shocked silence, then the other women made their goodbyes to Amalisa. One by one they curtsied to Liandrin, but she did not acknowledge them. She continued to stare straight ahead at nothing, but she saw them, and heard. Honorifics offered with breathy unease at the Aes Sedai’s mood. Eyes falling when she ignored them. They squeezed past her to the door, pressing back awkwardly so their skirts did not disturb hers.

As the door closed behind the last of them, Amalisa said, “Liandrin, I do not underst—”

“Do you walk in the Light, my daughter?” There would be none of that foolishness of calling her sister here. The other woman was older by some years, but the ancient forms would be observed. However long they had been forgotten, it was time they were remembered.

As soon as the question was out of her mouth, though, Liandrin realized she had made a mistake. It was a question guaranteed to cause doubt and anxiety, coming from an Aes Sedai, but Amalisa’s back stiffened, and her face hardened.

“That is an insult, Liandrin Sedai. I am Shienaran, of a noble House and the blood of soldiers. My line has fought the Shadow since before there was a Shienar, three thousand years without fail or a day’s weakness.”

Liandrin shifted her point of attack, but she did not retreat. Striding across the room, she took the leather-bound copy of  _ The Dance of the Hawk and the Hummingbird _ from the mantelpiece and hefted it without looking at it. “In Shienar above other lands, my daughter, the Light must be precious, and the Shadow feared.” Casually she threw the book into the fire. Flames leaped as if it were a log of fatwood, thundering as they licked up the chimney. In the same instant every lamp in the room flared, hissing, so fiercely did they burn, flooding the chamber with light. “Here above all. Here, so close to the cursed Blight, where corruption waits. Here, even one who thinks he walks in the Light may still be corrupted by the Shadow.”

Beads of sweat glistened on Amalisa’s forehead. The hand she had raised in protest for her book fell slowly to her side. Her features still held firm, but Liandrin saw her swallow, and her feet shift. “I do not understand, Liandrin Sedai. Is it the book? It is only foolishness.”

There was a faint quaver in her voice. Good. Glass lamp mantles cracked as the flames leaped higher and hotter, lighting the room as bright as unsheltered noon. Amalisa stood as stiff as a post, her face tight as she tried not to squint.

“It is you who are foolish, my daughter. I care nothing for books. Here, men enter the Blight, and walk in its taint. In the very Shadow. Why wonder you that that taint may seep into them? Whether or not against their will, still it may seep. Why think you the Amyrlin Seat herself has come?”

“No.” It was a gasp.

“Of the Red am I, my daughter,” Liandrin said relentlessly. “I hunt all men corrupted.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Not only those foul ones who try the One Power. All men corrupted. High and low do I hunt.”

“I don’t ...” Amalisa licked her lips unsteadily and made a visible effort to gather herself. “I do not understand, Liandrin Sedai. Please ...”

“High even before low.”

“No!” As if some invisible support had vanished, Amalisa fell to her knees, and her head dropped. “Please, Liandrin Sedai, say you do not mean Agelmar. It cannot be him.”

In that moment of doubt and confusion, Liandrin struck. She did not move, but lashed out with the One Power. Amalisa gasped and gave a jerk, as if she had been pricked with a needle, and Liandrin’s petulant mouth perked in a smile.

This was her own special trick from childhood, the first learned of her abilities. It had been forbidden to her as soon as the Mistress of Novices discovered it, but to Liandrin that only meant one more thing she needed to conceal from those who were jealous of her.

She strode forward and pulled Amalisa’s chin up. The metal that had stiffened her was still there, but it was baser metal now, malleable to the right pressures. Tears trickled from the corners of Amalisa’s eyes, glistening on her cheeks. Liandrin let the fires die back to normal; there was no longer any need for such. She softened her words, but her voice was as unyielding as steel.

“Daughter, no-one wants to see you and Agelmar thrown to the people as Darkfriends. I will help you, but you must help.”

“H-help you?” Amalisa put her hands to her temples; she looked confused. “Please, Liandrin Sedai, I don’t ... understand. It is all so ... It’s all ...”

It was not a perfect ability; Liandrin could not force anyone to do what she wanted—though she had tried; oh, how she had tried. But she could open them wide to her arguments, make them want to believe her, want more than anything to be convinced of her rightness.

“Obey, daughter. Obey, and answer my questions truthfully, and I promise that no-one will speak of you and Agelmar as Darkfriends. You will not be dragged naked through the streets, to be flogged from the city if the people do not tear you to pieces first. I will not let this happen. You understand?”

“Yes, Liandrin Sedai, yes. I will do as you say and answer you truly.”

Liandrin straightened, looking down at the other woman. The Lady Amalisa stayed as she was kneeling, her face as open as a child’s, a child waiting to be comforted and helped by someone wiser and stronger. There was a rightness about it to Liandrin. She had never understood why a simple bow or curtsy was sufficient for Aes Sedai when men and women knelt to kings and queens.  _ What queen has within her my power? _ Her mouth twisted angrily, and Amalisa shivered.

“Be easy in yourself, my daughter. I have come to help you, not to punish. Only those who deserve it will be punished. Truth only, speak to me.”

“I will, Liandrin Sedai. I will, I swear it by my House and honour.”

“Moiraine came to Fal Dara with a Darkfriend.”

Amalisa was too frightened to show surprise. “Oh, no, Liandrin Sedai. No. That man came later. He is in the dungeons now.”

“Later, you say. But it is true that she speaks often with him? She is often in company with this Darkfriend? Alone?”

“S-sometimes, Liandrin Sedai. Only sometimes. She wishes to find out why he came here. Moiraine Sedai is—” Liandrin held up her hand sharply, and Amalisa swallowed whatever else she had been going to say.

“By three young men Moiraine was accompanied. This I know. Where are they? I have been to their rooms, and they are not to be found.”

“I—I do not know, Liandrin Sedai. They seem nice boys. Surely you don’t think they are Darkfriends.”

“Not Darkfriends, no. Worse. By far more dangerous than Darkfriends, my daughter. The entire world is in danger from them. They must be found. You will command your servants to search the keep, and your ladies.” She almost commanded the woman to attend to the matter in person, but she would be expected at the welcome feast. “Every crack and cranny. To this, you will see personally. Personally! And to no-one will you speak of it, save those I name. None else may know. None. From Fal Dara in secrecy these young men must be removed, and to Tar Valon taken. In utter secrecy.”

“As you command, Liandrin Sedai. But I do not understand the need for secrecy. No-one here will hinder Aes Sedai.”

“Of the Black Ajah you have heard?”

Amalisa’s eyes bulged, and she leaned back away from Liandrin, raising her hands as though to shield herself from a blow. “A v-vile rumour, Liandrin Sedai. V-vile. There are n-no Aes Sedai who s-serve the Dark One. I do not believe it. You must believe me! Under the Light, I s-swear I do not believe it. By my honour and my House, I swear ...”

Coolly Liandrin let her go on, watching the last remaining strength leach out of the other woman with her own silence. Aes Sedai had been known to become angry, very angry, with those who even mentioned the Black Ajah, much less those who said they believed in its hidden existence. After this, with her will already weakened by that little childhood trick, Amalisa would be as clay in her hands. After one more blow.

“The Black Ajah is real, child. Real, and here within Fal Dara’s walls.” Amalisa knelt there, her mouth hanging open. The Black Ajah. Aes Sedai who were also Darkfriends. Almost as horrible to learn the Dark One himself walked Fal Dara keep. But Liandrin would not let up now. “Any Aes Sedai in the halls you pass, a Black sister could be. This I swear. I cannot tell you which they are, but my protection you can have. If in the Light you walk and me obey.”

“I will,” Amalisa whispered hoarsely. “I will. Please, Liandrin Sedai, please say you will protect my brother, and my ladies ...”

“Who deserves protection I will protect. Concern yourself with yourself, my daughter. And think only of what I have commanded of you. Only that. The fate of the world rides on this, my daughter. All else you must forget.”

“Yes, Liandrin Sedai. Yes. Yes.”

Liandrin turned and crossed the room, not looking back until she reached the door. Amalisa was still on her knees, still watching her anxiously. “Rise, my Lady Amalisa.” Liandrin made her voice pleasant, with only a hint of the mocking she felt.  _ Sister, indeed! Not one day as a Novice would she last. And power to command she has _ . “Rise.” Amalisa straightened in slow, stiff jerks, as if she had been bound hand and foot for hours. As she finally came upright, Liandrin said, the steel back in full strength, “And if you fail the world, if you fail me, that wretched Darkfriend in the dungeon will be your envy.”

From the look on Amalisa’s face, Liandrin did not think failure would come from any lack of effort on her part.

Pulling the door shut behind her, Liandrin suddenly felt a prickling across her skin. Breath catching, she whirled about, looking up and down the dimly lit hall. Empty. It was full night beyond the arrowslits. The hall was empty, yet she was sure there had been eyes on her. The vacant corridor, shadowy between the lamps on the walls, mocked her. She shrugged uneasily, then started down the hall determinedly.  _ Fancies take me. Nothing more _ .

Full night already, and there was much to do before dawn. Her orders had been explicit.

* * *

Balthamel strolled through the little castle’s dark hallways with her hands folded behind her back, serene in the knowledge that her  _ valdarhei _ would intercept any attack the savages thought to launch. If any of them even recognised the Forsaken in their midst, which she didn’t think likely. She’d found that they had some pretty colourful tales of her in this Age; aggrandizing tales, insulting tales, but rarely anything close to the truth. If they were so backwards as to actually believe she and the rest of the Chosen had been bound in Shayol Ghul by the Creator at the moment of Creation, then it had to be considered pretty bloody unlikely that they had a physical description of her jotted down in some book.

“The next left, then down the corridor until you see a stairwell on your left.” Puki had been set to privacy mode, his voice directed to her alone. She couldn’t have the savages freaking out over the ghost boy who habitually perched on her shoulder. Balthamel chuckled to herself, drawing curious looks from those passing, which she ignored. Most of the people here wore uniforms, but not of soldiers. Of servants. Professional servants. Philosophically, did that mean the Shadow had won the war? She tried to imagine how the sickly-sweet, oh-so-righteous Aes Sedai of the old world would react to seeing such a thing and laughed aloud _. Aristocracies. Blatant sexual prejudice. Wars of ‘honour’. And an entire class of people born and raised to serve. Oh they would have shat their robes, and huddled weeping in a corner _ .

Balthamel had always resented the staid, clean,  _ boring _ life the so-called Age of Legends had afforded. She hadn’t been the only one who chafed under all the regulations, or scorned the fools who sold their futures for a nice comfortable place on the assembly line. Aginor, for example, had turned against the Aes Sedai because they refused to authorise his experiments in genetic engineering, supposedly out of fear for what would become of humanity if they altered themselves too much. Almost, she might have sympathised with the arrogant creep. He hadn’t been seen since Ishamael dragged him off to his dungeon. Dead, or dying slowly she suspected. But that was not her problem.

She filled herself with  _ saidin _ as she advanced down the stark corridor, looking for Puki’s stairwell. The Aes Sedai had been fools, too stuck in their ways. Gender reassignment hadn’t made her suddenly start channelling  _ saidar _ , had it? So what if someone wanted to give himself eyes like a tiger, or wings on his back? Or make himself forever young. She was well rid of them and their supposedly perfect world.

It was just a pity the world that replaced it was such a shithole. “I can never catch a fucking break,” she muttered. Some serving woman had the guts to stop and frown at her; she was lucky Balthamel had a job to do or she might have learned to regret that look. When she’d decided to change to a female body she had known—known beyond the shadow of a doubt—that she could have switched back at any time; or mixed male and female attributes if she so chose. It had just been an accepted fact of life. Here in this time though she would have an easier time finding a beautiful Trolloc than a qualified surgery. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. These  _ kjasic _ people didn’t even have hot running water! She would happily murder this entire castle in exchange for a warm shower.

She found the stairs and headed downwards, mindful of her heavy shirts. The clothing, like the language, was taking a little getting used to. A  _ streith _ gown might have drawn a bit more attention than Ishamael wanted though. There was another one too full of his own brilliance. A sensible person would simply destroy the Horn of Valere before it could be used against him, but Ishamael wanted to use it as bait for Lews Therin Telamon’s supposed reincarnation instead. The Dragon Reborn was right here in this castle ... and just walking up to him and killing the stupid boy before he could learn to master  _ saidin _ was apparently a bad plan. She snorted. Ishamael would think his way into his own grave, all the while convinced he was doing something ingenious, when in truth he was just being a smug three-named prick. If the Great Lord had not named him Nae’blis ...

But he had, and Balthamel had no intention of tempting the Great Lord’s wrath.

She rounded a corner and found herself in a long, well-lit stone corridor with only one door and that at the far end, a good twenty feet away. It was a heavy-looking thing of thick wood bound with large steel bars, stern and forbidding.

The woman who stood before it was no less so. Short, lean and dark, she frowned at Balthamel’s appearance and stood taller. A futile gesture; Balthamel had not been notably short even when she was male. The little woman’s face took on a judge’s contemptuous cast when she saw Balthamel smirk.

“You are lost, daughter,” she said, laughably. “This place is forbidden to servants or guests, save with permission from the Lady of Fal Dara or the Amyrlin Seat herself. Remove yourself, or face the full weight of Tower law.”

Balthamel laughed aloud as she strolled towards her goal. It was too good. The woman, one of these so-called Aes Sedai plainly, had the manners of a judge and the face of a convict! How many times had she been threatened with a binder if she didn’t stop “abusing” her gift? This one had already been bound, yet she prated of the laws of their Tower as though grateful for her punishment.

“The full weight of Tower law, you say? Well fuck me sideways honey, that sounds just terrifying.”

Scowling in censor, the woman’s companion moved from the wall he had been leaning against and placed himself in Balthamel’s path. He was as dark as his mistress, young, clean-shaven and handsome. It was almost a pity he had to die. “No farther, miss,” he said, arms crossed before him and hands on the hilts of the matched swords at his waist.

Swords, but she felt no Power in him. Of course, with the Great Lord’s shadow on  _ saidin _ none but his Chosen could use it safely. That would serve her very well indeed.  _ They will never even see me coming. The very idea that a woman like me could exist is probably beyond their feeble imaginations to conceive _ .

The stern-faced Aes Sedai certainly didn’t see her coming. Her eyes went wide and her mouth opened as though she could cry an alarm with only a blackened hole where her throat had been.  _ That for your laws, bitch. I answer to no law _ .

Her companion had his back to the dead woman, he could not possibly have seen, yet, to her annoyance, he let out a roar of horror and grief as the Aes Sedai crumpled to the ground, as though he knew her fate without looking. He lunged at Balthamel, swords ripping free of their sheaths and a mad rage twisting his face.

“Shield up,” Puki said cheerfully.

Balthamel didn’t need his help, not for something like this. She folded her arms beneath her ample bosom and scowled at her attacker. She took the man’s legs off at the knee with blades none but she could see; then claimed his arms as well as punishment for making so much noise.

She could already hear a commotion from upstairs, as the locals wondered what all the shouting was about. Scowling, she gave the cripple just enough time to realise his ruination before hurrying towards the door. The man’s expression of grief and horror was mercifully brief; but only because she could afford no witnesses. She wove  _ saidin _ and his life ended in a flash of fire.  _ I must be certain to dismember the bodies before I leave _ , she thought. It would be best if it looked like something a Myrddraal could have done.

The heavy door gave her as little trouble as the guards had. She broke it down with an invisible hammer of air, haste being more important than silence now.

Not that she was afraid of anyone in this quaint little fort. It was just that she didn’t want to lose her advantage. She stepped over the body of the Aes Sedai.  _ Saidin _ had been as invisible to her as  _ saidar _ was to Balthamel. And the Aes Sedai had not been expecting her to channel the male half of the Power. Her sisters wouldn’t be expecting it either. Balthamel smiled.  _ A sweet advantage indeed _ .

* * *

Pitch-blackness covered the dungeons whatever the hour, unless someone brought in a lantern, but Padan Fain sat on the edge of his cot, staring into the dark with a smile on his face. He could hear the other two prisoners grumbling in their sleep, muttering in nightmares. Fain was waiting for something, something he had been awaiting for a long time. For too long. But not much longer.

The door to the outer guardroom opened, spilling in a flood of light, darkly outlining a figure in the doorway.

Fain stood. “You! Not who I expected.” He stretched with a casualness he did not feel. Blood raced through his veins; he thought he could leap over the keep if he tried. “Surprises for everyone, eh? Well, come on. The night’s getting old, and I want some sleep sometime.”

As a lamp came into the cell chamber, Fain raised his head, grinning at something, unseen yet felt, beyond the dungeon’s stone ceiling. “It isn’t over yet,” he whispered. “The battle’s never over.”


	5. Always and Never

CHAPTER 6: Always and Never

Rand stared out at the Shienaran night through the narrow window of Nynaeve’s bedchamber, seeing little. Even if it had been a clear, sunny day he would have seen little; his thoughts were turned inwards, heavy with dark and certain ends.

The dim light of a single lamp suffused the room. Nynaeve, clad in her usual sensible brown clothes, sat knitting in a rocking chair on the other side of the lone bed, its covers still in place. Her face was calm, and she seemed aware of nothing except her knitting as she rocked gently. The steady click-click of her knitting needles was the only sound. The rug silenced the rocking chair.

There had been nights of late when he had wished for a carpet on the cold stone floor of his room, but in Shienar men’s rooms were always bare and stark. The walls here had two tapestries, mountain scenes with waterfalls, and flower-embroidered curtains alongside the arrowslits. Cut flowers, white morningstars, stood in a flat, round vase on the table by the bed, and more nodded in glazed white sconces on the walls. A tall mirror stood in a corner, near the large wood and canvas screen intended, he knew, for changing behind. Another mirror hung over the washstand, with its blue-striped pitcher and bowl. He wondered why Nynaeve needed two mirrors; there was none in his room, and he did not miss it. There was only one lamp lit, but four more stood around the room, which was nearly as large as the one he shared with Mat and Perrin. Nynaeve had it alone.

“The women’s apartments are much nicer than the men’s,” he said. “Thank you for inviting me in. Though I’m still not sure it’s the proper thing to do.”

Nynaeve lowered her knitting and gave him an amused smile. She was a pretty woman, and only a few years older than he, but being Wisdom added fifty years of authority. “The Light help me, Rand, you are becoming more Shienaran every day. Invited into the women’s apartments, indeed.” She sniffed. “Any day now, you’ll start talking about your honour, and asking peace to favour your sword.” He coloured, and hoped she did not notice in the dim light. She eyed his sword, its hilt sticking out of the long bundle beside him on the floor. He knew she did not approve of the sword, of any sword, but she said nothing about it for once.

He could think of far worse things to be than Shienaran. A male channeler first among them. Scowling, he straightened the leather jerkin she had found for him and twisted around so he could lean back against the wall.

“I don’t suppose you know any herbs that would remove the ability to channel without killing the person?”

Nynaeve made an angry sound when she dropped a stitch. “I don’t know why I am even trying tonight. I can’t keep track of my stitches for some reason.” She let the knitting fall onto her lap and turned her sternly kind eyes to him. “Do you think if I knew a solution to that problem I’d be keeping it to myself?”

Rand rubbed his forehead. “No. No, of course not. You’d never let anyone be hurt if you could stop it. I just ...” He sighed. “It doesn’t matter. Never mind me.”

For a moment Nynaeve was silent. She fussed with her skeins of yarn. Finally she said, “You mustn’t give up, Rand. Just because there is no cure known right now doesn’t mean there is no cure at all.” She scowled at the floor and muttered, as if to herself. “There has to be. I won’t lose another one.”

He nodded slowly.  _ But would I be the one lost, or the one that caused the loss? _ “It’s more the risk I pose to others that concerns me. I’d rather take care of the problem while I can still think rationally enough to realise there  _ is _ a problem.” He pursed his lips and raised his hands wardingly. “Rationally enough by men’s standards, before you say anything.”

Nynaeve sniffed, though it was a half-hearted thing. “You’re not so bad when it comes to that. You’re at least half-sensible. Perhaps even two thirds on a good day.”

That brought a short, wry laugh from him.

“You just need some rest. You’ve been worrying yourself near to death this past month. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how hard you push yourself when training with that fool sword. Prancing around with Lan, or Ingtar, or whoever isn’t busy, until you’re ready to collapse from exhaustion. That’s no way to deal with your worries. Get yourself a good’s night sleep, and we’ll discuss your troubles in the morning.” Nynaeve frowned at him. “You can use the bed until I get back from the feast, but after that it’s the floor for you. Got it?”

Rand smiled wanly. “Of course.” He had tried to kiss Nynaeve once, years ago. She had turned him down gently. Well, gently for her. She’d only smacked his face the once, and hadn’t brought the Women’s Circle down on him for his lewdness. He had no delusions about why she had brought him here. A pallet on the floor would do just fine. But what was that about a feast? “Where exactly are you going?”

“There’s to be a welcome feast for the Amyrlin tonight. I imagine it will stretch into the small hours so you needn’t wait up. I’m expected there. Even if Moiraine had not said I should go, I would never let her think I was ...” He eyes lit up fiercely for a moment, and he knew what she meant. Nynaeve would never let anyone think she was afraid, even if she was. Certainly not Moiraine, and especially not Lan. He hoped she did not know he was aware of her feelings for the Warder. The man had been a fool to reject her advances so far as Rand was concerned, though he was hardly going to say anything about it; to either of them.

“Well, I hope you enjoy yourself,” he said.

“Speaking of the feast, I need to be getting ready.” Her eyes darted to the changing screen and she scowled slightly.

Rand shifted his feet, suddenly embarrassed. “I should be going ...”

She shook her head. “Don’t be a complete woolhead Rand. What would be the point of my having snuck you in here if you were just going to go wandering the women’s apartments in full view of all those Aes Sedai?”

She pointed to the window. “Go ... count the stars or something.” Then she pointed at him. “And keep your back turned!” she barked.

“Of course,” he said placatingly. He returned to the window and leaned against the wall, looking out. Behind him he heard Nynaeve repositioning the screen and the mirrors, then the sound of garments being shed.

From time to time the soft rustlings ceased and he saw, out of the farthest corner of his eye, a dark head poking above the screen to frown his way. As if she did not trust him not to try and steal a peek at her body. That was a little offensive to be honest. Not that Rand wouldn’t very much like to see Nynaeve naked, she was a very attractive woman, but he would never steal what she did not want to give.

“I’m done,” she announced at last. He turned to find her eyeing him appraisingly. She gave a small nod of what he took for approval.

Pleasing as that was, it could not distract him from the sight before him. Nynaeve wore a dress of pale blue silk, embroidered in snowdrop blossoms around the neck and down the sleeves. Each blossom centred on a small pearl, and her belt was tooled in silver, with a silver buckle set with pearls. He had never seen her in anything like that. Even feastday clothes back home might not match it.

After a moment her gaze softened as it fell on the sleeve of her dress. “The Lady Amalisa gave me this,” she said so softly he wondered if she was speaking to herself. She stroked the silk with her fingers, outlining the embroidered flowers, smiling, lost in thought.

“It’s very pretty on you, Nynaeve. You look beautiful tonight.” He winced as soon as he said it. Any Wisdom was touchy about her authority, but Nynaeve was touchier than most. The Women’s Circle back home had always looked over her shoulder because she was young, and maybe because she was pretty, and her fights with the Mayor and the Village Council had been the stuff of stories.

She jerked her hand away from the embroidery and glared at him, brows lowering. “Make up the pallet before you go to bed. You’ll not want to be doing it in the dead of night. I have to go. Don’t do anything foolish, or dramatic, while I’m gone.” She was out the door before he could frame a response, closing it firmly behind herself.

The room, for all its finery, seemed suddenly quite empty.

Rand sighed and unlaced his jerkin. Nynaeve had been right about one thing. He was very tired. A good night’s sleep might be just what he needed to sort out his feelings about what he had become.

The farmhouse door shook under furious blows from outside; the heavy bar across the door jumped in its brackets. Beyond the window next to the door moved the heavy-muzzled silhouette of a Trolloc. There were windows everywhere, and more shadowy shapes outside. Not shadowy enough, though. Rand could still make them out.

_ The windows _ , he thought desperately. He backed away from the door, clutching his sword before him in both hands.  _ Even if the door holds, they can break in the windows. Why aren’t they trying the windows? _

With a deafening metallic screech, one of the brackets pulled partly away from the doorframe, hanging loose on nails ripped a finger’s width out of the wood. The bar quivered from another blow, and the nails squealed again.

“We have to stop them!” Rand shouted.  _ Only we can’t. We can’t stop them _ . He looked around for a way to run, but there was only the one door. The room was a box. Only one door, and so many windows. “We have to do something. Something!”

“It’s too late,” Mat said. “Don’t you understand?” His grin looked odd on a bloodless pale face and the hilt of a dagger stood out from his chest, the ruby that capped it blazing as if it held fire. The gem had more life than his face. “It’s too late for us to change anything.”

“I’ve finally gotten rid of them,” Perrin said, laughing. Blood streamed down his face like a flood of tears from his empty sockets. He held out red hands, trying to make Rand look at what he held. “I’m free, now. It’s over.”

“It’s never over, al’Thor,” Padan Fain crooned, capering in the middle of the floor. “The battle’s never done. You can’t hide, not from me, and not from them. You thought it was over, did you not? But the battle’s never done, al’Thor. They are coming for me, and they’re coming for you, and the war goes on. Whether you live or die, it’s never over for you. Never.” Suddenly he began to chant.

“Soon comes the day all shall be free.

Even you, and even me.

Soon comes the day all shall die.

Surely you, but never I.”

A crooked grin twisting his mouth, he chuckled deep in his throat. “Mordeth knows more than all of you. Mordeth knows.”

The door exploded in splinters, and Rand ducked away from the flying shards of wood. Two red-clad Aes Sedai stepped through, bowing their master in. A mask the colour of dried blood covered Ba’alzamon’s face, but Rand could see the bottomless darkness of his eyes through the eyeslits.

“It is not yet done between us, al’Thor,” Ba’alzamon said, and he and Fain spoke together as one, “For you, the battle is never done.”

With a strangled gasp Rand jerked awake. The warm weight of the blankets held him down. It seemed he could still hear Fain’s voice, as sharp as if the Darkfriend peddler were standing beside him.  _ It’s never over. The battle’s never done _ .

He shivered and hugged himself. The blankets mumbled something in response.

Rand drew a deep breath and blinked himself awake.

There was a woman in the bed with him. She smelled faintly of perfume and wine. She had her arms around his shoulders and her head rested on his naked chest. She breathed deeply, as though sound asleep. He held himself very still and ran his eyes across the darkened bedchamber.

The faint slivers of moonlight revealed little. But one thing stood out. The pearls of Nynaeve’s fine new dress glowed ghostly-white; it was draped carefully over the large changing screen. She must have arrived back while he slept. But why hadn’t she awoken him?

She was snoring softly as she pressed against his side. His heart was beating fast. Cautiously he moved his hand across her shoulder, feeling the fine linen of her nightshift. She had come back from the feast, changed for bed ... and then decided not to wake him up as agreed. Instead she had climbed in the bed with him ... and then what? Put her arms around him and cuddled against his chest? It didn’t seem likely. Fallen asleep, tossed and turned, and then been instinctively drawn to his warmth? Perhaps.

Regardless of why, it felt good to be held like that. Warm and comforting. With all that had happened in recent months it might have felt good to be held by anyone, but especially so to be held by Nynaeve. Cautiously he tightened his arm around her shoulders, and then dared to rest his cheek upon her head.

With a snort, Nynaeve’s snores came to an end. She stiffened in his embrace and he fancied she looked around in confusion much as he had. His heart was beating so fast he was afraid she could hear it.

After a time she whispered, “Rand. I know you’re awake, I can hear your ... How did I come to be like this?”

He kept his tone as quiet as hers. “I didn’t do anything, I swear. When I woke up you were just there.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. She sighed and rested her cheek against his chest.

That she did not immediately pull away emboldened him to tighten his embrace. Her warmth seemed to melt the cold knot that had grown inside him since learning what he was.

“That’s nice,” she whispered, sounding surprised for some reason. “But we shouldn’t be touching like this. I’m the Wisdom. I’m not supposed to ... no-one is allowed to ... to touch ...” He felt her muscles tighten, her hands bunch into fists. It was such a waste. She was so beautiful, so passionate, so full of love. What could possibly be wrong about it?

So he took her gently by the braid and brought her to face him. In the dark and quiet night he could not see her lovely face, but he recalled it intimately from all the years he had watched her from afar. Her breath was warm upon his lips; he smelt the wine there. And then he tasted it, tasted her.  _ Divine _ .

This time, this time she did not push him away. No squawk of outrage met his advance. No hard hand cracked across his face. Nynaeve’s soft lips were pliant beneath his. And soon, blessedly soon, she was kissing him back, kissing him with a surprising hunger. Her arms came around his neck and her fingers tangled in his hair.

He had been stiffening ever since realising who was in the bed with him, now he was hard as stone and aching with need for her. He rubbed himself instinctively against her thigh as they kissed. A little gasp met his movement. More followed, each hastily suppressed, as he cupped the sides of her face, trailed a hand down the side of her neck and over her shoulder.

The gasp she let out when he took her breast in his hand was much louder, and when he squeezed it gently her legs parted beneath him as though of their own accord. Nynaeve broke their kiss and tossed her head against the pillow in wordless denial, but her hands clutched him to her still and beneath the soft fabric of her shift he could feel her hard nipple pressing upwards, seeking freedom.

He granted it, taking hold of the hem of her shift and pulling it up over her head. For all her protests, Nynaeve shifted on the bed to allow him to rid her of the hampering cloth.

Her hands went to her chest after, and even in the pitch darkness he could tell she was covering her breasts, hiding them even from his blindness. It was oddly sweet. He did not attempt to pry loose her grip, but turned his attention back to her warm, soft lips.

He unlaced his drawers and struggled out of them. He had help to do so, for one of Nynaeve’s hands came free of her breast to push his underwear down over his bottom. Her hand remain there, clutching the soft-hard flesh of his buttocks as he kicked his way free of his underwear.

Their breathing was hard and fast now. He touched the inside of her thigh and kneaded his way upwards. As he got closer to her most intimate place he fancied he could feel the heat of her arousal against his knuckles. Her soft gasps returned, and when he dared to touch her furry sex and slip a finger inside she cried aloud, “Light, yes!”

Nynaeve pressed her face to his shoulder to muffle her cries. Even if her words had not urged him on, the sheer sopping wetness of her would have been enough to tell him she wanted this as badly as he did.

He positioned himself above her spread legs and wrapped her in his arms, savouring the silky-smooth feel of her skin on his. His hardness found her softness without the need of guiding hands. He pressed forward slowly, gasping in awe as he did so. Rand slid into Nynaeve and discovered in her the home he had feared lost to him forever. He sighed out her name as he entered, warmth and pleasure washing away all his fears and self-loathing.

A slight obstruction broke before him and Nynaeve’s arms tightened across his waist and shoulders. She muffled a whimper against him as he slid farther into her until at last his full length was cradled in her wondrous heat. She clutched him tightly and, he dared to dream, welcomingly.

He rode her slowly, crushing the foolish instinct to go faster, savouring every moment of their lovemaking. Nynaeve let him lead, legs spread wide, arms wrapped around him and face pressed to his shoulder, she seemed focused on ensuring no-one in the adjacent rooms heard her make a sound.

But Rand could hear. Much as she tried to hide them, her gasps of pleasure spurred him on. Her heart beat against his; he could feel it thundering through the deliciously soft breasts that pressed against his chest. Her hands explored his body excitedly in the concealing darkness.

He explored her, too. Her breasts were full, her waist slender, her hips curved pleasantly. And her bottom, when he reached around to grab it with both hands, was soft and pert.

And sensitive too, for it was that act that caused her to dig her nails into his flesh and convulse against him.

“Oh. Oh. Oh, Light,” gasped Nynaeve as she wrapped her legs around his waist and held him to her. She arched her back and tossed back her head as she gripped his manhood tight inside.

Rand kissed her cheek, her brows, the side of her neck. The realisation that Nynaeve, the wondrous, frustrating, brave, loud, kind, bossy Nynaeve had just come, impaled upon his manhood, drove him over the edge. He wrapped her in his arms and squeezed her tight to his chest, thrusting into her hard and fast now, needing her. This, this was worth living for, whatever the horrors that might await a man like him. If only they could stay together like this forever nothing else would matter.

Nynaeve made sounds of surprise when he sped up, but before long she had her arms around his shoulders and was kissing his face in the dark.

He moaned aloud with the sheer joy of it and Nynaeve pressed her hand over his mouth, silencing him.

The pressure inside him built fast. He was moaning against her hand with each new thrust as his body demanded release. When at last it came he buried himself inside Nynaeve’s glorious heat and flooded her with his seed.

Wave after wave of pleasure coursed through him, draining him of all strength. He lowered himself to the bed on shaking arms, resting his head on her shoulder and trembling. “Nynaeve ...” he whispered softly.

She stroked his hair and cooed under her breath as though he was a little child. “There you are. It’s alright. It will be alright. I’ll keep you safe.”

He took her breast in his hand and kneaded it lightly, fascinated by its softness.

Rand did not remember falling asleep once more. When he awoke he found himself hugging Nynaeve from behind. He felt her start just as he had from the cacophony as bells crashed out ringing all over the keep.

He sat up in bed. “That’s an alarm! They’re searching ...”

Nynaeve shook her head uneasily. “No, I don’t think so. If they are searching for you, all the bells do is warn you. No, if it’s an alarm, it is not for you.”

“Then what?” He bounded naked from her bed and hurried to the nearest arrowslit.

Outside, lights darted through the night-cloaked keep like fireflies, lamps and torches dashing here and there. Some went to the outer walls and towers, but most of those that he could see milled through the garden below and the one courtyard he could just glimpse part of. Whatever had caused the alarm was inside the keep. The bells fell silent, unmasking the shouts of men, but he could not make out what they were calling.

_ If it isn’t for me ... could Fal Dara be under attack? _

“What is happening out there?” Nynaeve turned from looking through another arrowslit and he beheld her naked body for the first time. Moonlight bathed her in stark blacks and whites, her rounded breasts, the curves of her waist, her slender legs, the dark triangle at the juncture of her thighs. She was beautiful.

He stirred again at the sight of her. She noticed, for her gaze slid down his torso to his waist and she gasped, covering herself as best she could with her hands. She turned her face away, the moonlight casting her blush in a darker shade than red. He wanted nothing in life so much in that moment than to take her in his arms and carry her back to the bed, to make sweet love to her over and over until the dawn came to part them.

But the sound of steel on steel called to him from within the keep.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled his stare from her body and turned to snatch his breeches from the floor. He yanked them on, not bothering with underwear, and leaned against the cold stone wall to pull on his boots. “I have to go,” he said tensely. “Mat and Perrin and Anna and Loial could be out there, mixed up in whatever’s causing those alarms.”

He crossed the room in quick strides and snatched his sword and bow free of the bundle. He hung a quiver from the back of his swordbelt and buckled it about his waist. There was no time to bother with a coat, and the wool likely wouldn’t do much to stop a blade or arrow anyway.

Nynaeve caught him at the door, grabbing his arm. She was not as tall as his shoulder, but she held on like iron. “Don’t be a goat-brained fool, Rand,” she said in a voice that was higher than any he’d ever heard from her. “Even if this doesn’t have anything to do with you, these are the women’s apartments. There will be Aes Sedai out there in the halls, likely as not. The others will be alright. There are hundreds of Shienaran soldiers in this keep, and a dozen Aes Sedai with their Warders.”

“I can’t risk it. What if something happened to them while I just sat here, with my sword gathering dust in the corner?” In the dark it was hard to see her face, but he found her shoulders with his arm and her lips with his. He kissed her hard. It was over far too soon.

“I love you,” Rand said from the doorway. “I always have and I always will.”

Nynaeve did not respond, save to draw in a long, deep breath. He waited in the silence for four agonising heartbeats, the longest of his young life. Then he jerked open the door and dashed out into the fray. Behind him he thought he heard the Wisdom let out a low sob.


	6. Raid

CHAPTER 7: Raid

A woman screamed at the sight of him, shirtless with a sword at his waist and a bow in his hand. Even invited, men did not go armed in the women’s apartments unless the keep was under attack. Women filled the corridor, many in their nightclothes, serving women in the black-and-gold, ladies of the keep, some still in silks and laces, women in embroidered shawls with long fringes, all talking loudly at the same time, all demanding to know what was happening. Crying children clung to skirts everywhere. He plunged through them, dodging where he could, muttering apologies to those he shouldered aside, trying to ignore their startled stares.

A fine-figured woman with long yellow hair to her shoulders stood with her back to him, clad only in her shift. She barred his path so he set a hand gently to her shoulder and nudged her aside with a low, “Excuse me.” As she stepped aside, she turned towards him with a startled look on her pretty face, a face he half-remembered. He hastened on.

One of the women in a shawl turned to go back into her room, and he saw the back of her blue shawl, saw the gleaming white teardrop in the middle of her back. Suddenly he recognized faces he had seen in the outer courtyard. Aes Sedai, staring at him in alarm, now.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” demanded the beautiful, olive-skinned Aes Sedai, now clad in a green robe with her hair tousled from sleep.

Lady Liu, Agelmar’s eldest child, had her father’s strong face. She narrowed her eyes at the sight of Rand, but had more pressing concerns than his being where he should not be. “Is the keep under attack? Answer me, man!”

“He’s no soldier. Who is he? What’s happening?” said her cousin, the Lady Rena.

“It’s the young southland lord!” cried a serving woman.

A lady he did not know pointed triumphantly. “Someone stop him!”

Fear pushed his lips back, baring his teeth, but he kept moving, and tried to move faster.

Then a woman came out into the hall, face-to-face with him, and he stopped in spite of himself. He recognized that face above the rest; he thought he would remember it if he lived forever. The Amyrlin Seat. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, and she started back. Another Aes Sedai, the tall woman he had seen with the staff, put herself between him and the Amyrlin, shouting something at him that he could not make out over the increasing babble.

_ She knows. Light help me, she knows. Moiraine told her _ . Snarling, he ran on.  _ Light, just let me make sure the others are safe before they ... _ He heard shouting behind him, but he did not listen.

When he reached the exit he found the door open. Several women had preceded him out into the night, among them a large, plain-faced woman in a lacy blue dress and the green-clad Arafellin Aes Sedai.

“They are almost here,” said the latter to the former.

“Be careful, Alanna. Even with your Warders around you, the Shadow’s forces are not to be taken lightly,” cautioned the other.

This Alanna had a temper on her. Her scowl robbed her of much of her beauty. “I know the dangers of the Shadow, Anaiya. Better than you do. I was raised in the Borderlands, after all.”

Anaiya quelled Alanna’s outburst with no more than a raised eyebrow. Her dark cheeks darkened farther, and then darkened even more when Rand strode by her. “You! What are you doing ...” she cut herself off with a snap of her teeth, eyes darting back towards the bedchambers beyond the doorway. He ran on without responding.

Once out of the women’s apartments, Rand took a moment to string his bow. There was turmoil all around him out in the keep. Men running for the courtyards with swords in hand, never looking at him. Over the clamour of alarm bells, he could make out other noises, now. Shouts. Screams. Metal ringing on metal. He had just time to realize they were the sounds of battle— _ Fighting? Inside the keep? _ —when three Trollocs came dashing around a corner in front of him.

Hairy snouts distorted otherwise human faces, and one of them had ram’s horns. They bared teeth, raising scythe-like swords as they sped toward him.

The hallway that had been full of running men a moment before was empty now except for the three Trollocs and himself. Caught by surprise, his hastily-strung arrow thudded into the first Trolloc’s stomach, lethal, but not instantly so. It staggered as it ran, falling to its knees near the stairway up to the woman’s apartments. The other two would be on Rand before he could nock another arrow so he dropped the bow and reached for his sword.

Before he could draw it a pair of red spikes appeared on the Trollocs’ chests. They fell forwards, revealing the two Warders behind them, clad in their colour-shifting cloaks. One was pale and the other dark, but both moved with the lean, deadly grace of hunting wolves. They pulled their swords free of the Trollocs’ backs, heads swivelling this way and that, watching everything.

Fire burst from the stairway nearby, incinerating the injured Trolloc. Alanna glided down to meet her Warders with her chin raised proudly. She cast Rand an appraising look, but he ignored her. Snatching up his bow, he ran farther into the keep.

Turning a corner he saw another group of Trollocs. Suddenly there were a dozen Shienarans rushing past him at the Trollocs, men only half dressed, but swords at the ready. One Trolloc snarled as it died, and its companions ran, pursued by shouting men waving steel. Shouts and screams filled the air from everywhere.

An explosive roar drew him toward the garden, down blood-stained hallways littered with the bodies of humans and Trollocs both. As he reached the narrow window overlooking the garden he heard a shriek of pain. Below he saw a Myrddraal wreathed in flames, dancing in the night. The Trollocs with it roared in a mix of rage and fear as they charged the pair before them.

The slender Aes Sedai from earlier wore a blue nightrobe now, instead or her formal yellow dress. She must have been the first to rush out at the sound of the alarm. Her one-eyed Warder lunged at the advancing Trollocs; his curved two-handed sword looked heavier than those Lan and Rand used; it easily hacked through the Trollocs’ chainmail. Two went down from a single slash but more ran on. The Aes Sedai raised her hand and lightning shot from her fingertips.

Rand nocked an arrow and loosed, taking one Trolloc in the eye. He had another arrow strung before his first target had hit the ground.

The dying Myrddraal still thrashed on the ground as Trolloc after Trolloc fell around it, to sword, to arrow and to the One Power. Only when the Fade stopped moving did the surviving Trollocs break and run, few as there were by then.

He lowered his bow and breathed a sigh of relief. The Aes Sedai looked up towards him but in the flickering light cast by the burning shadowspawn he could not make out her expression. He wasn’t sure he wanted to either. She might prove to be one of his executioners. He turned his back on the garden and ran.  _ Where would Mat and Perrin be? What about Anna, or Loial? _ He could not think. They had been avoiding him, mostly, since learning he could channel, he did not know what they did with their time.

Chaos reigned all throughout Fal Dara keep. The Shienarans fought unarmoured, he had no idea what had become of the nightguards. It wasn’t only the soldiers, servants took up arms as well. As he ran through the halls of the castle he saw a young Shienaran lord, one of Agelmar’s kin, hard-pressed by a Trolloc but before he could line up his shot the serving girl Haku jumped the creature from behind and plunged a dagger into its neck. Other women fought, too. It was rare for a Shienaran woman to join the army, most left the fighting to their men while they managed the estates, but Rand saw one hard-faced woman take a Trolloc’s leg off at the knee with her axe before hopping aside to avoid it’s wild, retaliatory swing and then coming back in to behead it as it lay on the tiles. The woman’s topknot was of that rare ash-grey colour that Shienarans seemed to prize. She scarcely looked like she needed Rand’s help, but he put a few arrows through the nearby Trollocs just in case before leaving her and her fellow soldiers to their work.

Later he saw Lord Agelmar himself from afar as the white-haired man stood in his fine silk robe directing his officers in defence of the keep; grim and topknotted men listened to his terse orders before running off to their assignments. But wherever he ran Rand could find no sign of his friends.

He turned deeper into the keep, running down halls empty of life, though now and again a dead Trolloc lay on the floor. Or a dead man. He helped where he could, but he soon ran out of arrows and had to leave his longbow behind.

Then he came to a crossing of corridors, and to his left was the tail end of a fight. Six top-knotted men lay bleeding and still, and a seventh was dying. The Myrddraal gave its sword an extra twist as it pulled the blade free of the man’s belly, and the soldier screamed as he dropped his sword and fell. The Fade moved with viperous grace, the serpent illusion heightened by the armour of black, overlapping plates that covered its chest. It turned, and that pale, eyeless face studied Rand. It started toward him, smiling a bloodless smile, not hurrying. It had no need to hurry for one man alone.

He felt rooted where he stood; his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. The look of the Eyeless is fear. That was what they said along the Border.

He unsheathed his sword awkwardly, tried Hummingbird Kisses the Honeyrose. He did the form so badly Lan would have stalked off in disgust. The Myrddraal evaded it easily, disdaining to counterattack, playing with him. His hands shook as he raised his sword for another attack.  _ Light, it just killed seven armed soldiers together. Light, what am I going to do. Light! _

Abruptly the Myrddraal stopped, its smile gone.

“This one is mine, Rand.” Rand gave a start as Ingtar stepped up beside him, dark and stocky in a yellow feastday coat, sword held in both hands. Ingtar’s dark eyes never left the Fade’s face; if the Shienaran felt the fear of that gaze, he gave no sign. “Try yourself on a Trolloc or two,” he said softly, “before you face one of these.”

“I was looking for my friends—”

“Then go see to them.”

Rand swallowed. “We’ll take it together, Ingtar.”

“You aren’t ready for this. Go see to your friends. Go! You want Trollocs to find them unprotected?” For a moment Rand hung there, undecided. The Fade had raised its sword, for Ingtar. A silent snarl twisted Ingtar’s mouth, but Rand knew it was not fear. Ingtar put a hand to his shoulder and pushed him towards the other corridor and Rand allowed himself to be pushed. Still he felt ashamed as he ran for the stairs that led underground. He knew a Fade’s look could make any man afraid, but Ingtar had conquered the dread. His stomach still felt knotted.

The corridors beneath the keep were silent, and feebly lit by flickering, far-spaced lamps on the walls. He slowed as he came closer to the dungeons, creeping as silently as he could on his toes. The grate of his boots on the bare stone seemed to fill his ears. The door to the dungeons stood cracked open a handbreadth. It should have been closed and bolted.

Staring at the door, he tried to swallow and could not. He opened his mouth to call out, then shut it again quickly. Padan Fain was held in there, the Darkfriend peddler who had led the Trollocs to the Theren and replaced their comfortable lives with all this madness. Could this attack have been launched just to free him? Rand hoped not, Fain had done more than enough damage. Taking a deep breath, he set himself.

In one motion he pushed the door wide open and threw himself into the dungeon, tucking his shoulder under to roll through the straw covering the floor and come to his feet, spinning this way and that too quickly to get a clear picture of the room, looking desperately for anyone who might attack him. There was no-one there.

His eyes fell on the table, and he stopped dead, breath and even thought freezing. On either side of the still-burning lamp, as if to make a centrepiece, sat the heads of the guards in two pools of blood. Their eyes stared at him, wide with fear, and their mouths gaped in a last scream no-one could hear. Rand gagged and doubled over; his stomach heaved again and again as he vomited into the straw. Finally he managed to pull himself erect, scrubbing his mouth with his sleeve; his throat felt scraped raw.

Slowly he became aware of the rest of the room, only half seen and not taken in during his hasty search for an attacker. Bloody lumps of flesh lay scattered through the straw. There was nothing he could recognize as human except the two heads. Some of the pieces looked chewed.  _ So that’s what happened to the rest of their bodies _ . He was surprised at the calmness of his thoughts, almost as if he had achieved the void without trying. It was the shock, he knew vaguely.

Blood covered the walls, too, but in scrawled letters, single words and whole sentences splashed on every which way. Some were harsh and angular, in a language he did not know, though he recognized Trolloc script. Others he could read, and wished he could not. Blasphemies and obscenities bad enough to make a stablehand or a merchant’s guard go pale. Written by a hand more human than the others.

“Fain.” Calmness vanished. He snatched the lamp from the table, hardly noticing when the heads toppled over. He started toward the inner door, took two steps, and stopped, staring. The words on the door, dark and glistening wetly in the light of his lamp, were plain enough.

WE WILL MEET AGAIN ON TOMAN HEAD.

IT IS NEVER OVER, AL’THOR.

His sword dropped from a hand suddenly numb. Never taking his eyes off the door, he bent to pick it up. Instead he grabbed a handful of straw and began scrubbing furiously at the words on the door. Panting, he scrubbed until it was all one bloody smear, but he could not stop.

“What do you do?”

At the sharp voice behind him, he whirled, stooping to seize his sword.

A woman stood in the outer doorway, back stiff with outrage. Her hair was like pale gold, in a dozen or more braids, but her eyes were dark, and sharp on his face. She looked not much older than he, and pretty in a sulky way, but there was a tightness to her mouth he did not like. Then he saw the shawl she had wrapped tightly around her, with its long, red fringe.

_ Aes Sedai. And Light help me, she’s Red Ajah _ . “I ... I was just ... It’s filthy stuff. Vile.”

“Everything must be left exactly as it is for us to examine. Touch nothing.” She took a step forward, peering at him, and he took one back. “Yes. Yes, as I thought. One of those with Moiraine. What do you have to do with this?” Her gesture took in the heads on the table and the bloody scrawl on the walls.

For a minute he goggled at her. “Me? Nothing! I came down here looking for my friends.” And to see if Fain had escaped. He turned to open the inner door, and the Aes Sedai shouted, “No! You will answer me!”

Suddenly it was all he could do to stand up, to keep holding the lamp and his sword. Icy cold squeezed at him from all sides. His head felt caught in a frozen vise; he could barely breathe for the pressure on his chest.

“Answer me, boy. Tell me your name.”

Involuntarily he grunted, trying to answer against the chill that seemed to be pressing his face back into his skull, constricting his chest like frozen iron bands. He clenched his jaws to keep the sound in. Painfully he rolled his eyes to glare at her through a blur of tears.  _ The Light burn you, Aes Sedai! I won’t say a word, the Shadow take you! _

“Answer me, boy! Now!”

Frozen needles pierced his brain with agony, grated into his bones. The void formed inside him before he even realized he had thought of it, but it could not hold out the pain. Dimly he sensed light and warmth somewhere in the distance. It flickered queasily, but the light was warm, and he was cold. Distant beyond knowing, but somehow just within reach.  _ Light, so cold. I have to reach ... what? She’s killing me. I have to reach it, or she’ll kill me _ . Desperately he stretched toward the light.

“What is going on here?”

Abruptly the cold and the pressure and the needles vanished. His knees sagged, but he forced them stiff. He would not fall to his knees; he would not give her the satisfaction. The void was gone, too, as suddenly as it had come.  _ She was trying to kill me _ , he thought. Panting, he raised his head. Moiraine stood in the doorway.

“I asked what is going on here, Liandrin,” she said.

“I found this boy here,” the Red Aes Sedai replied calmly. “The guards are murdered, and here he is. One of yours. And what are you doing here, Moiraine? The battle is above, not here.”

“I could ask the same of you, Liandrin.” Moiraine looked around the room with only a slight tightening of her mouth for the charnel. “Why are you here?”

Rand turned away from them, awkwardly shoved back the bolts on the inner door, pulled it open and went in, holding his lamp high. His knees kept wanting to give way; he was not sure how he stayed on his feet, or what the Aes Sedai had tried to do to him, or how he had resisted it.

A hollow gurgle and a thrashing sound came from his right, and he thrust the lamp that way. A prisoner in a fancy coat was sagging against the iron grille of his cell, his belt looped around the bars and then around his neck. As Rand looked, he gave one last kick, scraping across the straw-covered floor, and was still, tongue and eyes bulging out of a face gone almost black. His knees almost touched the floor; he could have stood anytime he wanted to.

Shivering, Rand peered into the next cell. A big man with the sunken knuckles huddled in the back of his cell, eyes as wide as they could open. At the sight of Rand, he screamed and twisted around, clawing frantically at the stone wall.

“I won’t hurt you,” Rand called. The man kept on screaming and digging. His hands were bloody, and his scrabblings streaked across dark, congealed smears. This was not his first attempt to dig through the stone with his bare hands.

Rand turned away, relieved that his stomach was already empty. But there was nothing he could do for either of them.

When his light finally reached the end of the cells he found the door to Fain’s cell standing open, and the cell empty. “He’s loose,” Rand whispered.

The chamber was suddenly flooded with light as the two Aes Sedai entered. Each balanced a glowing ball of cool light, floating in the air above her hand.

Liandrin marched straight down the middle of the wide hall, holding her skirts up out of the straw with her free hand, but Moiraine paused to look at the two prisoners before following. “There is nothing to do for the one,” she said, “and the other can wait.”

Liandrin reached Rand first, but Moiraine darted in ahead of her to examine the empty cell. Rand looked from one Aes Sedai to the other. “Fain is gone. Do you think they launched this attack to free him? Why?” Liandrin arched an eyebrow at him and turned to watch Moiraine with a wry expression.

“Be quiet,” Moiraine said in a flat voice. He had the odd feeling he had somehow embarrassed her.

Voices suddenly came from the outer room, men exclaiming in disgust and anger.

“In here,” Moiraine called.

“When I came,” Liandrin said in a cold voice, “he was destroying the writing in the outer chamber.”

He shifted uneasily. The Aes Sedai’s eyes seemed alike, now. Measuring and weighing him, cool and terrible.

“It—it was filth,” he said. “Just filth.” They still looked at him, not speaking. “You don’t think I ... Moiraine, you can’t think I had anything to do with—with what happened out there.”

She did not answer, and he felt a chill that was not lessened by men rushing in with torches and lamps. Moiraine and Liandrin let their glowing balls wink out. The lamps and torches did not give as much light; shadows sprang up in the depths of the cells.

Ingtar led the men. His topknot almost quivered with anger, and he looked eager to find something on which to use his sword. “So the Darkfriend is gone, too,” he growled. “Well, it’s the least of what has happened this night.”

“The least even here,” Moiraine said sharply with a hard look for Liandrin before she glided towards the door.

Liandrin watched her, then turned to stare at Rand. He tried to ignore her. He concentrated on scabbarding his sword and brushing off the straw that clung to his breeches. When he raised his head, though, she was still studying him, her face as blank as ice. Saying nothing, she turned to consider the other men thoughtfully. One held the body of the hanged man up while another worked to unfasten the belt. Ingtar and the others waited respectfully. With a last glance at Rand, she left, head held like a queen.

“A hard woman,” Ingtar muttered, then seemed surprised that he had spoken. “What happened here, Rand al’Thor?”

Rand shook his head. “I don’t know, except that Fain escaped somehow. I saw the guardroom”—he shuddered—“but in here ... Whatever it was, Ingtar, it scared that fellow bad enough that he hung himself. I think the other one’s gone mad from seeing it.”

“We are all going mad tonight.”

“The Fade ... you killed it?”

“No!” Ingtar slammed his sword into its sheath; the hilt stuck up above his right shoulder. He seemed angry and ashamed at the same time. “It’s out of the keep by now, along with the rest of what we could not kill.”

“At least you’re alive, Ingtar. That Fade killed seven men!”

“Alive? Is that so important?” Suddenly Ingtar’s face was no longer angry, but tired and full of pain. “We had it in our hands. In our hands! And we lost it, Rand. Lost it!” He sounded as if he could not believe what he was saying.

“Lost what?” Rand asked.

“The Horn! The Horn of Valere. It’s gone, chest and all,” said Ingtar despairingly.

“But it was in the strongroom.”

“The strongroom was looted,” Ingtar said wearily. “Berisha Sedai and her Warder, who were guarding the door, were murdered. The killers did not take much, except for the Horn. What they could stuff in their pockets. I wish they had taken everything else and left that.”

His voice became quiet. “Ronan is dead, too. He did not go down easily, though. The old man had blood on his dagger. No man can ask more than that.” He was silent for a moment. “When I was a boy, Ronan held Jehaan Tower with twenty men against a thousand Trollocs.”

Rand sighed. The whole thing reminded him all too well of the Trolloc raid on Emond’s Field last Winternight. “How did they get in,” he asked grimly.

“They came in through the Dog Gate, and left the same way. We put an end to fifty or more, but too many escaped. Trollocs! We’ve never before had Trollocs inside the keep. Never!”

“How could they get in through the Dog Gate, Ingtar? One man could stop a hundred there. And all the gates were barred.” He shifted uneasily, remembering why. “The guards would not have opened it to let anybody in.”

“Their throats were cut,” Ingtar said. “Both good men, and yet they were butchered like pigs. It was done from inside. Someone killed them, then opened the gate. Someone who could get close to them without suspicion. Someone they knew.”

Rand looked at the empty cell where Padan Fain had been. “But that means ...”

“Yes. There are Darkfriends inside Fal Dara. Or were. We will soon know if that’s the case. Kajin is checking now to see if anyone is missing. Peace! Treachery in Fal Dara keep!” Scowling, he looked around the dungeon, at the men waiting for him. They all had swords, and some had helmets, but few were fully dressed. “We aren’t doing any good here. Out! Everyone!” Rand joined the withdrawal.

“I suppose Lord Agelmar’s doubled the guard on all the gates,” he sighed.

“Tripled,” Ingtar said in tones of satisfaction. “No-one will pass those gates, from inside or out. As soon as Lord Agelmar heard what had happened, he ordered that no-one was to be allowed to leave the keep without his personal permission.”

As soon as he heard ...? “Ingtar, what about before? What about the earlier order keeping everyone in?”

“Earlier order? What earlier order? Rand, the keep was not closed until Lord Agelmar heard of this. Someone told you wrong.”

Rand shook his head slowly. Neither Ragan nor Tema would have made up something like that. And even if the Amyrlin Seat had given the order, Ingtar would have to know of it. So who? And how? He glanced sideways at Ingtar, wondering if the Shienaran was lying.  _ You really are going mad if you suspect Ingtar _ .

They were in the dungeon guardroom, now. The severed heads and the pieces of the guards had been removed, though there were still red smears on the table and damp patches in the straw to show where they had been. Two more Aes Sedai were there, placid-looking women with brown-fringed shawls, studying the words scrawled on the walls, careless of what their skirts dragged through in the straw. Each had an inkpot in a writing-case hung at her belt and was making notes in a small book with a pen. They never even glanced at the men trooping through.

“Look here, Verin,” the plumply pretty one said, pointing to a section of stone covered with lines of Trolloc script. “This looks interesting.”

Her shorter, greying, companion hurried over, picking up reddish stains on her skirt. “Yes, I see. A much better hand than the rest. Not a Trolloc. Very interesting.” She began writing in her book, looking up every so often to read the angular letters on the wall.

Rand hurried out. Even if they had not been Aes Sedai, he would not have wanted to remain in the same room with anyone who thought reading Trolloc script written in human blood was “interesting”.

Ingtar and his men stalked on ahead, intent on their duties. Rand dawdled, wondering where he could go now. He still hadn’t seen any sign of his friends and getting back into the women’s apartments would not be easy without Nynaeve to help.

Lan found him before he reached the first stairs leading up. “You can go back to your room, if you want, sheepherder. Moiraine had your things fetched from Nynaeve’s room and taken to yours.”

“How did she know where I was hiding?” Rand asked, concentrating hard on that question, hoping that nothing else of what he’d been doing there showed on his face.

Lan’s face was as unreadable as ever. “Moiraine knows a great many things, sheepherder. You should understand that by now. You had better watch yourself. The women are all talking about you running through the halls, waving a sword. Staring down the Amyrlin, so they say.”

“Light! I am sorry they’re angry, Lan, but I was invited in. And when I heard the alarm ...”

Lan pursed his lips thoughtfully; it was the only expression on his face. “Oh, they’re not angry, exactly. Though most of them think you need a strong hand to settle you down some. Fascinated is more like it. Even the Lady Amalisa can’t stop asking questions about you. Some of them are starting to believe the servants’ tales. They think you’re a prince in disguise, sheepherder. Not a bad thing. There is an old saying here in the Borderlands: ‘Better to have one woman on your side than ten men.’ The way they are talking among themselves, they’re trying to decide whose daughter is strong enough to handle you. If you don’t watch your step, sheepherder, you will find yourself married into a Shienaran House before you realize what has happened.” Suddenly he burst out laughing; it looked odd, like a rock laughing. “Running through the halls of the women’s apartments in the middle of the night waving a sword. If they don’t have you flogged, at the very least they’ll talk about you for years. They have never seen a male as peculiar as you. Whatever wife they chose for you, she’d probably have you the head of your own House in ten years, and have you thinking you had done it yourself, besides. It is too bad you have to leave.”

Rand had been gaping at the Warder, but now he growled, “I have been trying. The gates are guarded, and no-one can leave. I tried while it was still daylight. I couldn’t even take Red out of the stable.”

“No matter, now. Moiraine sent me to tell you. You can leave anytime you want to. Even right now. Moiraine had Agelmar exempt you from the order.”

“Why now, and not earlier? Why couldn’t I leave before? Was she the one who had the gates barred then? Ingtar said he knew nothing about any order to keep people in before tonight.”

Rand thought the Warder looked troubled, but all he said was, “When someone gives you a horse, sheepherder, don’t complain that it isn’t as fast as you’d like.”

“What about the others? Are they alright? I can’t leave until I know they’re alright.”

“The girl is fine. I saw her earlier, stalking around the upper parapets with that bow of hers, winning some admiring looks from the fighters below.”

That was a relief. “What about Mat and Perrin? And Loial.”

“I saw the Ogier as well. He was unharmed. And the two  _ ta’veren _ have fate on their side, they will not be easily killed. The choice is up to you, sheepherder. You can leave now, or tomorrow, or next week. It’s up to you.” He walked away, leaving Rand standing there in the corridor deep under Fal Dara keep. But much as he wanted to run, to live, Rand had already made his decision.


	7. Dark Prophecy

CHAPTER 8: Dark Prophecy

As the litter carrying Mat left the Amyrlin Seat’s chambers, Moiraine carefully rewrapped the  _ angreal _ —a small, age-darkened ivory carving of a woman in flowing robes—in a square of silk and put it back into her pouch. Working together with other Aes Sedai, merging their abilities, channelling the flow of the One Power to a single task, was tiring work under the best conditions, even with the aid of an  _ angreal _ , and working through the night without sleep was not the best conditions. The work they had done on the boy had not been easy and more importantly it had not been conclusive. They could suppress Mashadar’s influence on him but they would need to use something more powerful to fully break his link to the evil that devoured Shadar Logoth. There were  _ sa’angreal _ in the White Tower that would more than suffice, though she expected that getting the boy to accompany the Amyrlin on her return trip would prove tiring.

Leane directed the litter bearers out with sharp gestures and a few crisp words. The two men kept ducking their heads, nervous at being around so many Aes Sedai at once, and one of them the Amyrlin herself, never mind that the Aes Sedai had been using the Power. They had waited in the corridor, squatting against the wall while the work was done, and they were anxious to be gone from the women’s apartments. Mat lay with his eyes closed and his face pale, but his chest rose and fell in the even rhythm of a deep sleep.

_ How will this affect matters?  _ Moiraine wondered. _ He is not necessary with the Horn gone, and yet ... _ She had hoped that the Circle would prove sufficient without a  _ sa’angreal _ ; hoped that it wouldn’t be necessary for Mat to visit the Tower. Bringing a  _ ta’veren _ to Tar Valon promised many dangers, both to the city and to the  _ ta’veren _ . Perhaps from her own sisters even.  _ What had Liandrin been doing to Rand last night? _ She had stopped quickly once she realised Moiraine was watching, but from the little she had seen of the weave it almost resembled Compulsion—a forbidden weave that allowed a channeler to force her will on someone’s mind.

If she could not even trust her fellow Aes Sedai ... but no. There was prudence and then there was madness. She had detected no sign of malfeasance in the attempted Healing, and they had used a full Circle of thirteen to try to break the dagger’s hold on Mat. Of those sisters present, all but the two Reds, the sadly departed Berisha, and Alviarin had been involved. The White was busy gathering a report on their sister’s death.

_ What could kill an Aes Sedai and a Warder like that? So brutally that the bodies would be almost unrecognisable?  _ They had performed the Healing now instead of later as much to have an opportunity to discuss the attack, and to gather in numbers, as for concern over Mat’s health. Some suggested a Grey Man’s involvement in the murder, but the Soulless were Shadowspawn, even if they had been human once, and any Aes Sedai or Warder should be able to detect their presence.  _ Unless they have learned to hide themselves even from us _ . A disturbing thought.

Siuan’s Warder, the tall and grey-haired Alric, held the door for the sisters to depart behind Leane and the litter bearers, then closed it with himself on the outside. None would intrude on the Amyrlin while he lived.

Siuan drew an unsteady breath. “A nasty business that. Nasty.” Her face was smooth, but she rubbed her hands together as if she wanted to wash them.

“But quite interesting,” Verin said. She had lingered when the others departed, scribbling intently in her notebook. “It is too bad we do not have a  _ sa’angreal _ so the Healing could be complete. For all we did tonight, he will not live long. Months, perhaps, at best.”

Beyond the arrowslits dawn pearled the sky. It had been a long night. “But he will have those months, now,” Moiraine said sharply. “And the link can still be broken.”

“It can still be broken,” Verin agreed. She was a plump, square-faced woman, and even with the Aes Sedai gift of agelessness, there was a touch of grey in her brown hair. That was her only sign of age, but for an Aes Sedai it meant she was very old indeed. Her voice held steady, though, matching her smooth cheeks. “He has been linked to the dagger a long time, however, as a thing like that must be reckoned. And he will be linked longer yet. He may already be changed beyond the reach of full Healing, even if no longer enough to contaminate others. Such a small thing, that dagger,” she mused, “but it will corrupt whoever carries it long enough. He who carries it will in turn corrupt those who come in contact with him, and they will corrupt still others, and the hatred and suspicion that destroyed Shadar Logoth, every man and woman’s hand turned against every other, will be loose in the world again. I wonder how many people it can taint in, say, a year. It should be possible to calculate a reasonable approximation.”

Moiraine gave the Brown sister a wry look.  _ Another danger confronts us, and she sounds as if it is a puzzle in a book. Light, the Browns truly are not aware of the world at all _ . “Then we must take Mat and the dagger to Tar Valon, Sister, and put an end to the danger before it can spread.”

Siuan rubbed her eyes tiredly. “We have another worry. We must find this Padan Fain. Why is one Darkfriend important enough for them to risk what they did to rescue him? Much easier for them just to steal the Horn. Still risky as a winter gale in the Sea of Storms, coming into the very keep like that, but they compounded their risk to free this Darkfriend. If the Lurks think he is that important”—she paused, and Moiraine knew she was wondering if it truly was still only the Myrddraal giving commands—“then so must we.”

“He must be found,” Moiraine agreed, hoping that none of the urgency she felt showed, “but it is likely he will be found with the Horn. Agelmar is sending men to hunt those who took it and slew his family’s oathmen.”

“As you say, Daughter.” The Amyrlin pressed fingers to her lips to stifle a yawn. “And now, Verin, if you will excuse me, I will just say a few words to Moiraine and then sleep a little. Your help was invaluable, Daughter. Please remember, say nothing of the nature of the boy’s hurt to anyone. There are some who would see the Shadow in him instead of a thing men made on their own.”

There was no need to name the Red Ajah.  _ And perhaps _ , Moiraine thought,  _ the Reds were no longer the only ones of whom it was necessary to be wary _ .

“I will say nothing, of course, Mother.” Verin bowed, but made no move toward the door. “I thought you might wish to see this, Mother.” She pulled another small notebook, bound in soft, brown leather, from her belt. Verin carried a small library’s worth with her. “What was written on the walls in the dungeon. There were few problems with translation. Most was the usual—blasphemy and boasting; Trollocs seem to know little else—but there was one part done in a better hand. An educated Darkfriend, or perhaps a Myrddraal. It could be only taunting, yet it has the form of poetry, or song, and the sound of prophecy. We know little of prophecies from the Shadow, Mother.”

The Amyrlin hesitated only a moment before nodding. Prophecies from the Shadow, dark prophecies, had an unfortunate way of being fulfilled as well as prophecies from the Light. “Read it to me.”

Verin ruffled through the pages, then cleared her throat and began in a calm, level voice.

“Daughter of the Night, she walks again. The ancient war, she yet fights.

Her new lover she seeks, who shall serve her and die, yet serve still.

Who shall stand against her coming?

The Shining Walls shall kneel.

Blood feeds blood.

Blood calls blood.

Blood is, and blood was, and blood shall ever be.

The man who channels stands alone. He gives his friends for sacrifice.

Two roads before him, one to death beyond dying, one to life eternal.

Which will he choose? Which will he choose?

What hand shelters? What hand slays?

Blood feeds blood.

Blood calls blood.

Blood is, and blood was, and blood shall ever be.

Luc came to the Mountains of Doom. Isam waited in the high passes.

The hunt is now begun. The Shadow’s hounds now course, and kill.

One did live, and one did die, but both are.

The Time of Change has come.

Blood feeds blood.

Blood calls blood.

Blood is, and blood was, and blood shall ever be.

The Watchers wait on Toman’s Head.

The seed of the Hammer burns the ancient tree.

Death shall sow, and summer burn, before the Great Lord comes.

Death shall reap, and bodies fail, before the Great Lord comes.

Again the seed slays ancient wrong, before the Great Lord comes.

Now the Great Lord comes.

Now the Great Lord comes.

Blood feeds blood.

Blood calls blood.

Blood is, and blood was, and blood shall ever be.

Now the Great Lord comes.”

There was a long silence when she finished.

Finally the Amyrlin said, “Who else has seen this, Daughter? Who knows of it?”

“Only Serafelle, Mother. As soon as we had copied it down, I had men scrub the walls. They didn’t question; they were eager to be rid of it.”

The Amyrlin nodded. “Good. Too many in the Borderlands can puzzle out Trolloc script. No need to give them something else to worry over. They have enough.”

“What do you make of it?” Moiraine asked Verin in a careful voice. “Is it prophecy, do you think?”

Verin tilted her head, peering at her notes in thought. “Possibly. It has the form of some of the few dark prophecies we know. And parts of it are clear enough. It could still be only a taunt, though.” She rested a finger on one line. “ ‘Daughter of the Night, she walks again.’ That can only mean Lanfear is loose again. Or someone wants us to think she is.”

“That would be something to worry us, Daughter,” the Amyrlin Seat said, “if it were true. But the Forsaken are still bound.” She glanced at Moiraine, looking troubled for an instant before she schooled her features. “Even if the seals are weakening, the Forsaken are still bound.” Moiraine had not yet had the opportunity to tell her about the encounter with Aginor at the Eye of the World. But they could not speak of that in front of Verin.

_ First Aginor, and now Lanfear _ . In the Old Tongue the name meant Daughter of the Night. Nowhere was her real name recorded, but that was the name she had taken for herself, unlike most of the Forsaken, who had been named by those they betrayed. Some said she had really been the most powerful of the Forsaken, next to Ishamael, the Betrayer of Hope, but had kept her powers hidden. Too little was left from that time for any scholar to say for certain.

“With all the false Dragons that are appearing, it is not surprising someone would try to bring Lanfear into it.” Moiraine’s voice was as unruffled as her face, but inside herself she roiled. Only one thing for certain was known of Lanfear beside the name: before she went over to the Shadow, before Lews Therin Telamon met Ilyena, Lanfear had been his lover.  _ A complication we do not need _ .

The Amyrlin Seat frowned as if she had had the same thought, but Verin nodded as if it were all just words. “Other names are clear, too, Mother. Lord Luc, of course, was brother to Tigraine, then the Daughter-Heir of Andor, and he vanished in the Blight. Who Isam is, or what he has to do with Luc, I do not know, however.”

“We will find out what we need to know in time,” Moiraine said smoothly. “There is no proof as yet that this is prophecy.” She knew the name. Isam had been the son of Breyan, wife of Lain Mandragoran, whose attempt to seize the throne of Malkier for her husband had brought the Trolloc hordes crashing down. Breyan and her infant son had both vanished when the Trollocs overran Malkier. And Isam had been blood kin to Lan.  _ Or is blood kin? I must keep this from him, until I know how he will react. Until we are away from the Blight. If he thought Isam were alive _ ...

“ ‘The Watchers wait on Toman Head,’ ” Verin went on. “There are a few who still cling to the old belief that the armies Artur Hawkwing sent across the Aryth Ocean will return one day, though after all this time ...” She gave a disdainful sniff. “The  _ Do Miere A’vron _ , the Watchers Over the Waves, still have a ... community is the best word, I suppose ... on Toman Head, at Falme. And one of the old names for Artur Hawkwing was Hammer of the Light.”

“Are you suggesting, Daughter,” the Amyrlin Seat said, “that Artur Hawkwing’s armies, or rather their descendants, might actually return after a thousand years?”

“There are rumours of war on Almoth Plain and Toman Head,” Moiraine said slowly. “And Hawkwing sent two of his sons, as well as armies. If they did survive in whatever lands they found, there could well be many descendants of Hawkwing. Or none.”

The Amyrlin gave Moiraine a guarded look, obviously wishing they were alone so she could demand to know what Moiraine was up to. Moiraine made a soothing gesture, and her old friend grimaced at her.

Verin, with her nose still buried in her notes, noticed none of it. “I don’t know, Mother. I doubt it, though. We know nothing at all of those lands Artur Hawkwing set out to conquer. It’s too bad the Sea Folk refuse to cross the Aryth Ocean. They say the Islands of the Dead lie on the other side. I wish I knew what they meant by that, but that accursed Sea Folk closemouthedness ...” She sighed still not raising her head. “All we have is one reference to ‘lands under the Shadow, beyond the setting sun, beyond the Aryth Ocean, where the Armies of Night reign.’ Nothing there to tell us if the armies Hawkwing sent were enough by themselves to defeat these ‘Armies of the Night,’ or even to survive Hawkwing’s death. Once the War of the Hundred Years started, everyone was too intent on carving out their own part of Hawkwing’s empire to spare a thought for his armies across the sea. It seems to me, Mother, that if their descendants still lived, and if they ever intended to return, they would not have waited so long.”

“Then you believe it is not prophecy, Daughter?”

“Now, ‘the ancient tree,’ ” Verin said, immersed in her own thoughts. “There have always been rumours—no more than that—that while the nation of Almoth still lived, they had a branch of  _ Avendesora _ , perhaps even a living sapling. And the banner of Almoth was ‘blue for the sky above, black for the earth below, with the spreading Tree of Life to join them.’ Of course, Taraboners call themselves the Tree of Man, and claim to be descended from rulers and nobles in the Age of Legends. And Domani claim descent from those who made the Tree of Life in the Age of Legends. There are other possibilities, but you will note, Mother, that most centre around Almoth Plain and Toman Head.”

The Amyrlin’s voice became deceptively gentle. “Will you make up your mind, Daughter? If Artur Hawkwing’s seed is not returning, then this is not prophecy and it doesn’t matter a rotted fish head what ancient tree is meant.”

“I can only give you what I know, Mother,” Verin said, looking up from her notes, “and leave the decision in your hands. I believe the last of Artur Hawkwing’s foreign armies died long ago, but because I believe it does not make it so. The Time of Change, of course, refers to the end of an Age and the Great Lord—”

The Amyrlin slapped the tabletop like a thunderclap. “I know very well who the Great Lord is Daughter. I think you had better go now.” She took a deep breath, and took hold of herself visibly. “Go, Verin. I do not want to become angry with you. I do not want to forget who it was had the cooks leave sweetcakes out at night when I was a Novice.”

“Mother,” Moiraine said, “there is nothing in this to suggest prophecy. Anyone with a little wit and a little knowledge could put together as much, and no-one has ever said Myrddraal do not have a sly wit.”

“And of course,” Verin said calmly, “the man who channels must be one of the three young men travelling with you, Moiraine.”

Moiraine stared in shock _. Not aware of the world? I am a fool _ . Before she realized what she was doing, she had reached out to the pulsing glow she always felt there waiting, to the True Source.

The One Power surged along her veins, charging her with energy, muting the sheen of Power from the Amyrlin Seat as she did the same. Moiraine had never before even thought of wielding the Power against another Aes Sedai.  _ We live in perilous times, and the world hangs in the balance, and what must be done, must be done. It must. Oh, Verin, why did you have to put your nose in where it does not belong? _

Verin closed her book and slipped it back behind her belt, then looked from one woman to the other. She could not but be aware of the nimbus surrounding each of them, the light that came from touching the True Source. Only someone trained in channelling herself could see the glow, but there was no chance of any Aes Sedai missing it in another woman.

A hint of satisfaction settled on Verin’s face, but no sign that she realized she had hurled a lightning bolt. She only looked as if she had found another piece that fit in a puzzle. “Yes, I thought it must be so. Moiraine could not do this alone, and who better to help than her girlhood friend who used to sneak down with her to snitch sweetcakes.” She blinked. “Forgive me, Mother. I should not have said that.”

“Verin, Verin.” The Amyrlin shook her head wonderingly. “You accuse your sister—and me?— of ... I won’t even say it. And you are worried that you’ve spoken too familiarly to the Amyrlin Seat? You bore a hole in the boat and worry that it’s raining. Think what you are suggesting, Daughter.”

_ It is too late for that, Siuan, _ Moiraine thought.  _ If we had not panicked and reached for the Source, perhaps then ... But she is sure, now _ . “Why are you telling us this, Verin?” she said aloud. “If you believe what you say, you should be telling it to the other sisters, to the Reds in particular.”

Verin’s eyes widened in surprise. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I should. I hadn’t thought of that. But then, if I did, you would be Stilled, Moiraine, and you, Mother, and the man Gentled. No-one has ever recorded the progression in a man who wields the Power. When does the madness come, exactly, and how does it take him? How quickly does it grow? Can he still function with his body rotting around him? For how long? Unless he is Gentled, what will happen to the young man, whichever he is, will happen whether or not I am there to put down the answers. If he is watched and guided, we should be able to keep some record with reasonable safety, for a time, at least. And, too, there is  _ The Karaethon Cycle _ .” She calmly returned their startled looks. “I assume, Mother, that he is the Dragon Reborn? I cannot believe you would do this—leave walking free a man who can channel—unless he was the Dragon.”

_ She thinks only of the knowledge _ , Moiraine thought wonderingly _. The culmination of the direst prophecy the world knows, perhaps the end of the world, and she cares only about the knowledge. But she is still dangerous, for that _ .

“Who else knows of this?” The Amyrlin’s voice was faint, but still sharp. “Serafelle, I suppose. Who else, Verin?”

“No-one, Mother. Serafelle is not really interested in anything that someone hasn’t already set down in a book, preferably as long ago as possible. She thinks there are enough old books and manuscripts and fragments scattered about, lost or forgotten, to equal ten times what we have gathered in Tar Valon. She feels certain there is enough of the old knowledge still there to be found for—”

“Enough, Sister,” Moiraine said. She loosed her hold on the True Source, and after a moment felt the Amyrlin do the same. It was always a loss to feel the Power draining away, like blood and life pouring from an open wound. A part of her wanted to hold on, but unlike some of her sisters, she made it a point of self-discipline not to grow too fond of the feeling. “Sit down, Verin, and tell us what you know and how you found it out. Leave out nothing.”

As Verin took a chair—with a look to the Amyrlin for permission to sit in her presence— Moiraine watched her sadly.

“It is unlikely,” Verin began, “that anyone who hasn’t studied the old records thoroughly would notice anything except that you were behaving oddly. Forgive me, Mother. It was nearly twenty years ago, with Tar Valon besieged, that I had my first clue, and that was only ...”

_ Light help me, Verin, how I loved you for those sweetcakes, and for your bosom to weep on. But I will do what I must do. I will. I must _ .

* * *

The column would have made an impressive sight under the waxing moon, moving through the Domani night to the jangle of harness, had there been anyone to see it. A full two thousand Children of the Light, well mounted, in white tabards and cloaks, armour burnished, with their train of supply wagons, and farriers, and grooms with the strings of remounts. There were villages in this sparsely forested country, but they had left roads behind, and stayed clear of even farmers’ crofts. They were to meet ... someone ... at a flyspeck village near the northern border of Arad Doman, at the edge of Almoth Plain.

Geofram Bornhald, riding at the head of his men, wondered what it was all about. He remembered too well his interview with Pedron Niall, Lord Captain Commander of the Children of the Light, in Amador, but he had learned little there.

“We are alone, Geofram,” the white-haired man had said. His voice was thin and reedy with age. “I remember giving you the oath ... what ... thirty-six years ago, it must be, now.”

Geofram straightened. “My Lord Captain Commander, may I ask why I was called back from Caemlyn, and with such urgency? A push, and Morgase could be toppled. There are Houses in Andor that see dealing with Tar Valon as we do, and they were ready to lay claim to the throne. I left Eamon Valda in charge, but he seemed intent on following the Daughter-Heir to Tar Valon. I would not be surprised to learn the man has kidnapped the girl, or even attacked Tar Valon.” And Dain, Geofram’s son, had arrived just before Geofram was recalled. Dain was full of zeal. Too much zeal, sometimes. Enough to fall in blindly with whatever Valda proposed.

“Valda walks in the Light, Geofram. But you are the best battle commander among the Children. You will assemble a full legion, the best men you can find, and take them into Arad Doman, avoiding any eyes attached to a tongue that may speak. Any such tongue must be silenced, if the eyes see.”

Geofram hesitated. Fifty Children together, or even a hundred, could enter any land without question, at least without open question, but an entire legion ... “Is it war, my Lord Captain Commander? There is talk in the streets. Wild rumours, mainly, about Artur Hawkwing’s armies come back.” The old man did not speak. “The Queen ...”

“Does not command the Children, Lord Captain Bornhald.” For the first time there was a snap in the Lord Captain Commander’s voice. “I do. Let the Queen sit in her palace and do what she does best. Nothing. You will be met at a village called Alcruna, and there you will receive your final orders. I expect your legion to ride in three days. Now go, Geofram. You have work to do.”

Geofram frowned. “Pardon, my Lord Captain Commander, but who will meet me? Why am I risking another war with Arad Doman?”

“You will be told what you must know when you reach Alcruna.” The Lord Captain Commander suddenly looked more than his age. Absently he plucked at his white tunic, with the golden sunburst of the Children large on the chest. “There are forces at work beyond what you know, Geofram. Beyond what even you can know. Choose your men quickly. Now go. Ask me no more. And the Light ride with you.”

Now Geofram straightened in his saddle, working a knot out of his back.  _ I am getting old _ , he thought. A day and a night in the saddle, with two pauses to water the horses, and he felt every grey hair on his head. He would not even have noticed a few years ago. At least I have not killed any innocents. He could be as hard on Darkfriends as any man sworn to the Light—Darkfriends must be destroyed before they pulled the whole world under the Shadow—but he wanted to be sure they were Darkfriends first. It had been difficult avoiding Domani eyes with so many men, even in the backcountry, but he had managed it. No tongues had needed to be silenced.

The scouts he had sent out came riding back, and behind them came more men in white cloaks, some carrying torches to ruin the night vision of everyone at the head of the column. With a muttered curse, Geofram ordered a halt while he studied those who came to meet him.

Their cloaks bore the same golden sunburst on the breast as his, the same as every Child of the Light, and their leader even had golden knots of rank below it equivalent to Geofram’s. But behind their sunbursts were red shepherd’s crooks. Questioners. With hot irons and pinchers and dripping water the Questioners pulled confession and repentance from Darkfriends, but there were those who said they decided guilt before ever they began. Geofram Bornhald was one who said it.

_ I have been sent here to meet Questioners? _

“We have been waiting for you, Lord Captain Bornhald,” the leader said in a harsh voice. He was a tall, hook-nosed man with the gleam of certainty in his eyes that every Questioner had. “You could have made better time. I am Einor Saren, second to Jaichim Carridin, who commands the Hand of the Light in Valreis.” The Hand of the Light—the Hand that dug out truth, so they said. They did not like the name Questioners. “There is a bridge at the village. Have your men move across. We will talk in the inn. It is surprisingly comfortable.”

“I was told by the Lord Captain Commander himself to avoid all eyes.”

“The village has been ... pacified. Now move your men. I command, now. I have orders with the Lord Captain Commander’s seal, if you doubt.”

Geofram suppressed the growl that rose in his throat. Pacified. He wondered if the bodies had been piled outside the village, or if they had been thrown into the River Akuum. It would be like the Questioners, cold enough to kill an entire village for secrecy and stupid enough to throw the bodies into the river to float downstream and trumpet their deed from Alcruna to Bandar Eban. “What I doubt is why I am in Arad Doman with two thousand men, Questioner.”

Saren’s face tightened, but his voice remained harsh and demanding. “It is simple, Lord Captain. There are towns and villages across Almoth Plain with none in authority above a mayor or a Town Council. It is past time they were brought to the Light. There will be many Darkfriends in such places.”

Geofram’s horse stamped. “Are you saying, Saren, that I’ve brought an entire legion across Arad Doman in secrecy to root a few Darkfriends out of some grubby villages?”

“You are here to do as you are told, Bornhald. To do the work of the Light! Or are you sliding from the Light?” Saren’s smile was a grimace. “If battle is what you seek, you may have your chance. The strangers have a great force on Toman Head, more than Falmerden and Valreis may be able to hold, even if they can stop their own bickering long enough to work together. If the strangers break through, you will have all the fighting you can handle. The Falmerans claim the strangers are monsters, creatures of the Dark One. Some say they have Aes Sedai to fight for them. If they are Darkfriends, these strangers, they will have to be dealt with, too. In their turn. But for now Falmerden will have to face them alone. The Valreio have closed their borders and are allowing no-one through to Toman Head, even the Children. I have that from Inquisitor Carridin himself.”

For a moment, Geofram stopped breathing. “Then the rumours are true. Artur Hawkwing’s armies have returned.”

“Strangers,” Saren said flatly. He sounded as if he regretted having mentioned them. “Strangers and probably Darkfriends, from wherever they came. That is all we know, and all you need to know. They do not concern you now. We are wasting time. Move your men across the river, Bornhald. I will give you your orders in the village.” He whirled his horse and galloped back the way he had come, his torchbearers riding at his heels.

Geofram closed his eyes to hasten the return of his night sight.  _ We are being used like stones on a board _ . “Byar!” He opened his eyes as the Hundredman appeared at his side, stiffening in his saddle before the Lord Captain. The gaunt-faced man had almost the Questioner’s light in his eyes, but he was a good soldier despite. “There is a bridge ahead. Pass orders to move the legion across the river and make camp. I will join you as soon as I can.”

He gathered his reins and rode in the direction the Questioner had taken.  _ Stones on a board. But who is moving us? And why? _ If the Lord Captain Commander simply wanted a few villages cleansed of Darkfriends he would not need to send so many Children, or involve the Questioners. But if the nation of Almoth could be restored under the authority of the Children of the Light then they would have Arad Doman all but besieged. He well knew how much it had stung Pedron Niall’s pride to be defeated by Rodel Ituralde in the last war with Arad Doman. Bringing the Domani to heel at last would appeal greatly to the man, especially as old as he was. He must feel his chances to right that old wrong creeping away from him.

Geofram was more troubled by these rumours of invasion from the sea. But if Carridin’s word could be trusted Riela Selene had closed the passes through the Zandarakh Mountains. He could well believe it of her. Leaving the Falmerans to fight an invasion by themselves would neatly weaken her greatest rival. He wouldn’t be surprised if Valreis were to declare war against Falmerden just as soon as the latter was finished driving out these “strangers”, and was presumably badly bloodied from the struggle.  _ Could they truly be Hawkwings armies, returned at last? _

He almost wished he could go to Toman Head, orders and borders be damned. Watching the Questioners at work on Almoth Plain promised to be more than unpleasant. But if he wanted to discover the truth of the matter he would have to risk conflict with the armies of Valreis and that was unacceptable. Whatever was happening on Toman Head, the Falmerans would have to face it alone.

* * *

“I trust then that your troops will be here shortly,” Lady Eleanor said. She was a more than handsome woman, despite her grey hair and the fine lines on her face. Even as much as ten years ago she had probably been stunningly beautiful. The crossed green spears of House Elstan were proudly displayed on the wall above her hearth. She sat in a tall chair before a roaring fire, the long table before her littered with maps, and rolled correspondences, and surveyed her guests regally.

“I expect they will start arriving tonight and we can march tomorrow,” his father said contritely. “I apologise for the delay, my Lady. This is entirely my fault.”

“There is no need to apologise, Lord Timoth,” Eleanor said. “The sudden appearance of these invaders has us all scrambling, doesn’t it? I only received the Queen’s summons a few days ago myself. Our footsoldiers march to Falme already, as quickly as they can, and tomorrow my husband and son will lead our cavalry to join them alongside your own forces. Even then I fear what you will find in the capital. We were not prepared for a sea-borne invasion of the size being claimed. Or even of half that size, should the tales prove to be exaggerated.”

His father was a lean man, of an age with Lady Eleanor and every bit as grey. His polished leathers and fine white furs gave him a wolfish appearance. “I imagine they will, my Lady. Nothing is more likely to inflate an enemy’s prowess than the testimony of a defeated man. Our friends on the other side of the mountains were similarly prone to exaggeration in the last war. General Surtir made good use of their fears.”

Eleanor nodded in remembrance. “Let us see that our current foe learns to share those fears then, Timoth.” Standing just behind her chair with his hands folded at the small of his back, her grey-bearded husband, a nobleman of House Loren, also lost himself for a moment in solemn remembrance.

“Those were heady times,” said Lord Timoth, sounding as close to sad as he ever did. “The years since have not held the same promise.”

The Lady turned her attention to Nafanyel. “May I assume this is your son? He has your look about him.”

Lord Timoth’s mouth twisted sourly. “Taller though, there’s that.”

Nafanyel bowed to the lady. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Eleanor. I am Nafanyel Brylan, son of Lady Elayne Brylan,” he said. He knew his voice sounded harsh, despite the politeness of his words. That, too, was something he had inherited from his father.

“Well met. Your late mother is ever in our thoughts,” said Eleanor graciously.

Nafanyel bowed again. She was ever in his, too. She had been a kind and beautiful woman. He had inherited her glossy black hair, but little else of her appearance. Just over six feet tall, he had a long, gaunt face with pale skin and paler eyes. His hooked nose gave him a certain predatory appearance, which suited him just fine. He enjoyed a good hunt.

“Perhaps you might be so good as to inform my daughter’s husband of your retainers’ imminent arrival, Lord Nafanyel. Therus will want to be prepared to march at first light. You will find him in the western solar I believe.”

Nafanyel bowed yet a third time and withdrew. His father watched the exchange, flat-eyed and unsmiling.

House Elstan’s white-bearded bard, Alders, sang only martial songs tonight. Songs of victory and defiance, and many of those home-grown from the not-inconsiderable history of his young homeland. Falmerden was the newest nation on Valgarda, but their independence from the Winged Throne of Valreis had been hard-won. Grim-faced for a man of his years, Nafanyel marched by the singer. He did not join the men who stamped and clapped in tune to the bard’s warbling.

The seat of House Elstan, like those of most Falmeran Houses, had more in common with a military stronghold than an eastern noble’s manor. Armed and armoured guardsmen stood sentry at the thick wooden doors to the main hall, and he had passed many more like them on his way here, though a bare handful compared to the forces House Elstan could muster. Had mustered, and then sent to answer the call for aid issued by Queen Nora when she woke to find a fleet in her harbour and an army at her gates.  _ Soon we will join them, and face down these invaders _ . He wished the thought was more exciting. At eighteen years of age he had seen much of the hunt, but nothing of war.  _ I will do my duty, I will make my father proud, and honour my mother’s name _ .

The halls and walkways of Lady Eleanor’s home were made of the same thick, grey stone as the tall walls and towers that surrounded it, a stern deterrence to any attacker. But Falme’s walls had been thicker and taller, and the capital was said to have fallen in a matter of hours.

The corridors still bustled, but with servants rushing to prepare for the guests, rather than soldiers preparing for war. He stopped one harried-looking fellow and secured directions to the Lord’s solar. Once there he knocked on the polished wooden door and waited.

The man who answered had a neatly trimmed beard as black as the one Nafanyel had shaved off just before their arrival at the Elstan’s seat. His tunic was accented with black fox fur at cuffs and collar, as were his shin-length leather boots. His dark trousers were wide and loose. All in all he was dressed so similarly to Nafanyel that they might as well have been in uniform, he realised with wry twist of his lips. “Yes?” the man said.

“Lord Therus? I am Nafanyel Brylan. Lady Eleanor asked me to inform you that my father, Lord Timoth Rendin, has arrived and will be ready to march with you at dawn tomorrow.”

His dark eyes lit warmly. “Ah, Lord Nafanyel. Come in, come in. That is excellent news. We’ve delayed too long already. Barris, Gallacher and the rest will not wait for us. They will fall on these invaders as soon as they can reach them, to save the Queen. If, indeed, it is not too late already.”

The man ushered Nafanyel into a comfortable chamber around which was arrayed the clutter of a young family. Books, letters, drinks, unfinished sewing, a great many children’s toys. And, of course, a suit of armour arrayed on a wooden stand with a shield and sword propped nearby.

“Do you think they will have killed her then?” he asked. “Surely she would be more valuable as a hostage. My father tells me the King and their children were at Calranell when the invaders landed.”

Therus nodded. “We had the same news. I agree it would seem foolish to execute the Queen when her heirs are in the field, and with no less a man than Syoman Surtir at their side. But who can say what these strangers would consider wise.” He gave an incredulous laugh. “I’ve heard a rumour that they ride to battle on the backs of giant frogs of all things.”

His wife, Oriana, heir to House Elstan, stood nearby, clad in shimmering green silk and dry-washing her hands. Nafanyel suspected her sense of propriety was all that was keeping her from clinging to her husband’s arm. She was very pretty, with straight brown hair and big blue eyes. He studied her for a moment, and saw in her an echo of the beauty that time was struggling to erode from her mother.

Her young son didn’t seem to share her temperament. He bounced on his toes and stared up at his father excitedly. “Will there really be a war, dada? Will you bring me back a sword?” he said in a child’s voice.

Therus went to one knee, so he could look his son in the eye. “I’ll get you the mightiest one I can find, Oren. I promise. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“I wish victory was indeed so certain. My heart is ... disquiet,” Lady Oriana said, her voice trembling slightly.

“Don’t frighten the boy, love, I speak the truth,” Therus said heartily.

“I pray it is so,” Oriana said fervently. “The Light sustain and preserve us all. Watch over our sons, husbands and fathers and bring them safely back to us.”

“Ask the Creator to bring us some good ale while you’re at it,” said Therus with a grin and a slightly exasperated shake of his head.

Nafanyel surprised himself with a laugh.  _ If I must march to war, I can think of worse people to march with than this one _ .

Oriana sniffed at them both.

“Well, if the order is finally given I must prepare our men to ride. Have no fear, I will see you both again before we depart.” Therus gave his wife and son a confident smile before he ushered Nafanyel out of the solar.

They spoke of hounds and hawks as they made their way to the barracks. Therus was a son of House Calabra it turned out, whose holdings were not too far from Nafanyel’s own family’s. He knew the land well, even after nearly a decade away. Much as he liked the hunt, Therus admitted with a wry shrug, he’d had to rely on his beasts to make his kills; he’d never been very good with a bow. Nafanyel was too well-bred to boast of his own prowess in that regard, though it was considerable.

When they arrived at the barracks they found Brylan, Rendin and Elstan guardsmen mingled along the benches, boasting of what they would do to the invaders, insulting their fellows, cursing, dicing, playing cards and drinking ale. Spears, barred gates, mighty bears, all the sigils of the lordly families were ignored for now. Nafanyel found himself wondering how much the rivalries of the Houses were shared by those sworn to them, if any of these men really cared what sign graced their surcoats or what cause the Lady they served fought for. Or if they just obeyed whoever was paying their wages.

Captain Jak Denam commanded his father’s escort. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a hard, square face and brown hair spilling to his shoulders, he silenced the men around him with a raised hand. “Lord Nafanyel. Orders?”

“Stay sober. And sleep while you can. We march early tomorrow.”

Denam looked momentarily disappointed, but he nodded acknowledgment. His stony eyes fell on Therus. Denam looked him over and nodded once. “Greetings, my lord. You are the Lady’s son by marriage, are you not?”

“I am Lord Therus, yes.”

Denam’s smile did not touch his eyes. “That is good to know.” A few of the older men with him grinned as though he had made a joke.

“Well met, captain,” said Therus distractedly. He made his way over to his own guards and began relaying their Lady’s orders.

Nafanyel decided he would take his own advice. It promised to be a long, hard march to Falme.

Later that night he was woken from a deep sleep by a hard hand on his shoulder. Groggily, he looked around.  _ Morning already? _ It was not like him to oversleep, but he felt tired enough to sleep for hours.

“Wake up. Lord Timoth wants you,” a man said, his voice hard.  _ Denam _ . Nafanyel looked to the unshuttered window and saw that it was still dark outside.

He hauled himself into a sitting position. “What does my father want at this Light-blasted hour?”

“He’s waiting in the barracks,” was all Denam said before he left. Despite the chainmail he wore he moved almost silently, walking on soft slippers rather than his usual heavy boots. Frowning, Nafanyel grabbed his unwashed clothes from the floor and dressed hurriedly.

This late at night, and with so many of their people marching to war, the halls of the Elstan stronghold were empty. Nafanyel approached and entered their barracks without a single challenge.

He found his father within, armed, armoured and surrounded by his guardsmen. Strewn about his feet were the corpses of the Elstan men who had been on nightwatch.

Nafanyel felt his mouth fall open. “What happened?” he asked, for once grateful for the natural harshness of his voice.

“A reckoning that was long overdue,” said Lord Timoth, his quiet voice dripping satisfaction. “House Elstan, in all its pride, falls tonight.”

Blood drained from Nafanyel’s face. “What do you mean?”

His father shot him a scornful glance. “Try not to be an utter disappointment boy. We have our so-called superiors at a disadvantage and I intend to seize this opportunity. We will have to move swiftly. Denam, deal with Therus, Oriana and the boy. I will take care of Lady Eleanor and her husband. The rest of you know your tasks, make certain no-one survives.” He drew his sword, an old, unadorned thing, but whisper-quiet and razor-sharp. “Nafanyel, get a bow from the rack and follow me.” And just like that they were off, his family guards stepping over the corpses of men they had been dicing with mere hours ago, stalking away to find yet more of their countrymen to kill.

Nafanyel watched them go numbly.  _ Why is this happening? What should I do? _ But then his father called his name in a harsh whisper and he was snatching a bow and quiver from the Elstan guard’s supplies and hurrying after the ... the traitor to whom he owed allegiance.

On their way to the Lady’s private chambers he found ample evidence of their men’s passing. Dead servants littered the hall. From within the chambers they passed he could hear muffled cries as men and women were woken from sleep by a length of sharp, cruel steel. Nafanyel felt cold inside. No alarm sounded, the guards his father had brought with him were men experienced in the business of killing.

They passed old Alders, his face slack with shock as he lay in a pool of his own blood, his songs of Falmeran glory silenced forever. Nafanyel tried not to look at his accusing, dead-eyed stare.

Their slippered feet were quiet on the soft green carpet that ran down the middle of the stone halls. When they arrived at the Lady’s rooms they found only two guards on duty. Two, against the dozen his father had brought. The men exchanged uncertain looks, then the oldest of them stepped forward. “Lord Timoth, what brings you here at this hour. Lady Eleanor is abed.”

“I know,” his father drawled. He glanced at his guard. “Shoot them.”

Three arrows thudded into the senior guard before he could react. But the younger man was quick, he jerked his shield up and crouched behind it. The crossed green spears painted upon it were pierced by half a dozen arrows, but the guard survived. “’Ware treachery!” he shouted. “Wake, wake! We’re under attack!”

“Little bastard!” Lord Timoth snarled. “Finish him, and clear the rooms. Nafanyel, keep four men here and make sure no-one escapes.”

The young guard’s shield did not long protect him from the shouting, sword-wielding men who now charged at Lord Timoth’s command. He went down and the door to the chamber he guarded was soon kicked open.

Throughout the stronghold, Nafanyel could hear confused cries as the surviving people woke to find chaos and blood all around. He notched an arrow to his bowstring and stood, trembling with emotion.  _ Fear, is that fear? Am I a coward? _ He heard Lady Eleanor scream and looked away, looked down the corridor, searching for an enemy, guarding his father’s back.

A door to an adjoining study burst open and a man stood silhouetted against the candlelight within. He wore fur and leather but no armour and in his hand was a naked sword. He gasped when he saw the bodies laying in the corridor. Nafanyel felt the man’s eyes settle on him accusingly.

“Back-stabbers! Honourless mongrels!” roared Therus. He charged into the hall, slashing wildly at the Brylan men. Nafanyel stumbled back, putting as much distance as he could between them. He saw blood spurting from Mitch’s throat; Karl lost a hand and the bow it held, but Wat and Ulic between them managed to check the enraged Lord’s charge. Steel rang against steel as Nafanyel stood transfixed, his arrow still nocked.

“Why?” Therus snarled, as he checked Wat’s blade and shouldered him back. “Are you in league with the invaders?” He slipped away from Ulic’s slash and found the gap under the arm of Wat’s armour. The guard shuddered as the cold steel slid into his body. “Did Valreis buy you? Why are you doing this!?”

“I don’t know why,” Nafanyel whispered as he watched the man make short work of Ulic.

Therus turned to him then, and his dark eyes were filled with hate.  _ You’re next _ , they said.

The threat snapped Nafanyel out of his funk.  He raised his bow and took aim at Therus’ chest. “Don’t,” he warned. “Just leave. Find your wife and son and go, before my father comes back.”

Therus’ knuckles were white on his swordhilt. “Is that what you would do?” he hissed. Then he darted forward, moving swiftly from side to side, trying to draw Nafanyel into wasting his arrow, as if he truly believed that would happen.  _ I should have told him how good a shot I was _ , he thought sadly.  _ I should have ... _ Therus’ sword was almost in reach of him when Nafanyel loosed. The Lord stumbled, a thick cedar shaft protruding from his heart; his sword fell from suddenly slack hands and he crashed to his knees. “Oriana,” he whispered as he toppled forward. He died there, on his face in the hallway, his hand inches from Nafanyel’s feet.

Nafanyel squeezed his eyes shut. “Why are you doing this,” he echoed. “... father?”

He turned and stumbled towards the bedchamber, though once there he had to lean against the doorpost and take a few moments to compose himself.

Lord Baris Loren lay dead on the floor, unarmed and wearing only a nightshirt. Men of House Rendin were rummaging through the chests and wardrobes of his chamber, heedless of the corpse in their midst.

“We were attacked,” Nafanyel said harshly. “Four of our men are dead.”

One thick-shouldered man grunted in response. “The lord’s in the next room,” he said, not bothering to look up from the chest he crouched over.

When he pushed open the door and stepped inside, Nafanyel found his father sorting through some papers on Lady Eleanor’s desk.

The Lady herself lay face down on a her bed, the sheets of which were stained red with her blood. Her throat had been slashed and her white nightgown was ripped at the back, leaving the pale, slack flesh of her buttocks on display. Her blood was not the only fluid he saw staining the bed.

Nafanyel felt the rank taste of his own bile. Grimacing, he struggled to choke it back down, determined not to shame himself by puking in front of his father. But no amount of struggle could keep the disgust from his face.

“Therus is dead,” Nafanyel snarled. “He was in the study, working late.”

His father’s eyes were like grey stones. “Good. You did well to deal with him. And it will make things easier for Denam.”

“Easier to do what, exactly?” he asked, but he already knew the hateful answer.

His father did not even flinch. “Kill Oriana and her son, of course. And end the Elstan line in the process.”

_ Of course. I knew. Burn me, but I knew _ . “Is that why? To end another House? They aren’t even our enemies.”

“They think themselves better than us. But you should not be concerning yourself with the whys of my orders, Nafanyel. Your only concern is how best to carry those orders out. I will have more for you to do in the months to come. I know you will not fail me.”

He might have asked what exactly he would have to do, when, and to whom, but one phrase kept repeating in Nafanyel’s mind.  _ Why are you doing this? _


	8. A Lure

CHAPTER 9: A Lure

Perrin peered around the corner at the retreating back of the Aes Sedai. She smelled of lavender soap, though most would not have scented it even close up. As soon as she turned out of sight, he hurried for the infirmary door. He had already tried to see Mat once, and that Aes Sedai—Leane, he had heard somebody call her—had nearly snapped his head off without even looking around to see who he was. He felt uneasy around Aes Sedai, especially if they started looking at his eyes.

Pausing at the door to listen—he could hear no footsteps down the corridor either way, and nothing on the other side of the door—he went in and closed it softly behind him.

The infirmary was a long room with white walls, and the entrances to archers’ balconies at either end let in lots of light. Mat was in one of the narrow beds that lined the walls. After last night, Perrin had expected most of the beds to have men in them, but in a moment he realized the keep was full of Aes Sedai. The only thing an Aes Sedai could not cure by Healing was death. To him, the room smelled of sickness anyway.

Perrin grimaced when he thought of that. Mat lay still, eyes closed, hands unmoving atop his blankets. He looked exhausted. Not sick really, but as if he had worked three days in the fields and only now laid down to rest. He smelled ... wrong, though. It was nothing Perrin could put a name to. Just wrong.

Perrin sat down carefully on the bed next to Mat’s. He always did things carefully. He was bigger than most people, and had been bigger than the other boys as long as he could remember. He had had to be careful so he would not hurt someone accidentally, or break things. Now it was second nature to him. He liked to think things through, too, and sometimes talk them over with somebody.

It was not the Trolloc attack of the night before that troubled him. When it had all started he had been in one of the gardens. Some women had found him sitting there in the dark, one of them Lady Amalisa’s attendant, the round-faced and amber-skinned Lady Nisura. As soon as they came upon him, Nisura sent one of the others running, and he had heard her say, “Find Liandrin Sedai! Quickly!”

Then they had all stood there watching him as if they had thought he might vanish in a puff of smoke like a gleeman. Perrin stared at them, dumbfounded. He had still been trying to decide how best to ask what they wanted without implying they had all gone crazy when the first alarm bell rang, and everybody in the keep started running.

He had spent most of the rest of the night looking for and shadowing Anna. They weren’t as close as they had once been. Not since the wolves ... and the Whitecloaks. But he still cared for her and would not let any harm come to her while he lived. They’d lost too many friends already.

“Liandrin,” he muttered now. “Red Ajah. About all they do is hunt for men who channel. You don’t think she believes I’m one of those, do you?” Mat did not answer, of course. Perrin rubbed his nose ruefully. “Now I’m talking to myself. I don’t need that on top of everything else.” Rand was the one who was supposed to go crazy, the poor fool.

Mat’s eyelids fluttered. “Who ...? Perrin? What happened?” His eyes did not open all the way and his voice sounded as if he were still mostly asleep.

“Don’t you remember, Mat?”

“Remember?” Mat sleepily raised a hand toward his face, then let it fall again with a sigh. His eyes began to drift shut. “Remember Moiraine. Said she needed to reinforce the barrier. Whatever that means.” He laughed, and it turned into a yawn. He smacked his lips, and resumed the deep, even breathing of sleep.

Perrin leaped to his feet as his ears caught the sound of approaching footsteps, but there was nowhere to go. He was still standing there beside Mat’s bed when the door opened and Leane came in. She stopped, put her fists on her hips, and looked him slowly up and down. She was nearly as tall as he was and had skin of a strange, but beautiful, colour to his Theren-bred eyes.  _ The world is so much bigger than I ever knew _ . The thought did not fill him with wonder. Perrin would trade all the exotic sights in a heartbeat if it meant he could go back to the way things were.

“Now you,” Leane said, in tones quiet yet brisk, “are almost a pretty enough boy to make me wish I was a Green. Almost. But if you’ve disturbed my patient ... well, I dealt with brothers almost as big as you before I went to the Tower, so you needn’t think those shoulders will help you any.”

Perrin cleared his throat. Half the time he did not understand what women meant when they said things. Not like Rand. He always knew what to say to the girls. Or had. Now, who knew what would become of him. He realized he was scowling and wiped it away. He did not want to think about Rand, but he certainly did not want to upset an Aes Sedai, especially one who was beginning to tap her foot impatiently. “Ah ... I didn’t disturb him. He’s still sleeping. See?”

“So he is. A good thing for you. Now, what are you doing in here? I remember chasing you out once; you needn’t think I don’t.”

“I only wanted to know how he is.”

She hesitated. “He is sleeping is how he is. And in a few hours, he will get out of that bed, and you’ll think there was never anything wrong with him.”

The pause made his hackles rise. She was lying, somehow. Aes Sedai never lied, but they did not always tell the truth, either. He was not certain what was going on—Liandrin looking for him, Leane lying to him—but he thought it was time he got away from Aes Sedai. There was nothing he could do for Mat.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’d better let him sleep, then. Excuse me.”

He tried to slide around her to the door, but suddenly her hands shot out and grabbed his face, tilting it down so she could peer into his eyes. Something seemed to pass through him, a warm ripple that started at the top of his head and went to his feet, then came back again. He pulled his head out of her hands.

“You’re as healthy as a young wild animal,” she said, pursing her lips. “But if you were born with those eyes, I am a Whitecloak.”

“They’re the only eyes I ever had,” he growled. He felt a little abashed, speaking to an Aes Sedai in that tone, but he was as surprised as she when he took her gently by the arms and lifted her to one side, setting her down again out of his way. As they stared at each other, he wondered if his eyes were as wide with shock as hers. “Excuse me,” he said again, and all but ran.

_ My eyes. My Light-cursed eyes! _ The morning sunlight caught his eyes, and they glinted like burnished gold.

He stumped along, shoulders slumped, until his feet led him to the baths. It seemed a fitting place, though he knew no amount of scrubbing would remove the wolves from his mind or restore his eyes to their natural brown colour. With a sigh he pushed open the door and slipped inside, closing it again quickly to keep the heat in. He found the baths almost empty, save for Rand.

His old friend jerked a glance at the doorway, then sighed in evident relief when he saw it was only Perrin. He understood that. This Shienaran business of sharing baths was ... awkward to say the least. Hopefully this early in the morning they would have some privacy. Especially since no-one had gotten much sleep last night.

Perrin made his way to the bench, head down and yawning, and began undressing. Rand sat up, his bare chest glistening wet. Perrin tried not to notice. That, too, was a thing of the past. The thought made him sad, but no amount of wishing would cure Rand of the ability to channel.

“How is Anna? And Mat?” his friend asked.

“She’s asleep, so they tell me. They wouldn’t let me into the women’s apartments to see her. Mat is—” Suddenly Perrin scowled at the floor. “If you’re so interested, why haven’t you gone to see him yourself?” He tossed his shirt on the bench and began undoing his belt.

“I did go to the infirmary, Perrin. There was an Aes Sedai there, that tall one who’s always with the Amyrlin Seat. She said Mat was asleep, and I was in the way, and I could come back some other time. She sounded like Master Finngar ordering the men at the mill. You know how Master Finngar is all full of snap and do it right the first time, and do it right now.”

Perrin did not answer. He just shucked off his trousers and added them to the clothespile. What good would it do to talk about the past?

Rand studied his body as he undressed. It always made Perrin feel a little uncomfortable when he did that, but a little excited, too.

After a moment, Rand dug up a laugh. “You want to hear something? You know what she said to me? The Aes Sedai in the infirmary, I mean. You saw how tall she is. As tall as most men. A hand taller, and she could almost look me in the eyes. Well, she stared me up and down, and then she muttered, ‘Tall, aren’t you? Where were you when I was sixteen? Or even thirty?’ And then she laughed, as if it was all a joke. What do you think of that?”

Perrin clambered into the warm water and gave him a sidelong look. “I think you should avoid Aes Sedai as much as you can. You definitely shouldn’t be flirting with them.”  Rand was too, well, randy for his own good sometimes. Nearly as bad as Mat. Perhaps worse in some ways.

Rand threw up his hands. “Believe me I know. But ... never mind.”

Perrin frowned to himself as he slowly soaped up his hair, thinking it through. “I think the Aes Sedai are looking for all of us. That Liandrin at least. She has some of the women of the keep working for her,” he said at last.

Rand’s frown matched his own. “Why would she need searchers? Moiraine knows where I am, even without those coins of hers.” The coins Moiraine had given the three of them had allowed her to track them wherever they went. Mat had been the quickest to discard his once he learned what it did, but Rand and Perrin had not been far behind.

“Who knows why Aes Sedai do what they do? Best to just stay clear of them.”

“Easier said than done,” Rand muttered.

As if his words had summoned them, the door opened and several women entered the baths. Perrin groaned, and Rand sunk deeper into the water with a low growl. They weren’t Aes Sedai at least, there was that for comfort. But the sight of Lady Amalisa, her niece Liu, her attendant Nisura and the  _ shatayan _ Elansu was more than enough to redden Perrin’s cheeks.

Amalisa paused in the doorway, looked around the room, then gave a satisfied nod and pushed the door closed behind her. She was a short, dark-skinned and maturely beautiful woman. Her niece looked a lot like her, though Liu had narrower eyes and sharper cheekbones and a more slender figure. The two ladies exchanged unreadable looks before making their way towards the benches, ignoring the naked men in the large bathing pool.

“I have nothing against Nao,” Liu said, as though resuming a conversation, “I simply point out that the Queen needs a more suitable consort. Preferably a highborn lord to give her heirs.”

The four women began undressing matter-of-factly as they spoke, utterly unconcerned by the watching men. Perrin averted his eyes and Rand did the same ... at first, but it was hard not to steal a glance every once in a while, especially when the women weren’t even trying to hide their nakedness.

“Prince Akashi could always be married to a suitable woman and their children allowed to take his name instead of the mother’s, should Kensin have no heir of her own body,” said Lady Amalisa as she bared her breasts. They sagged low and were crowned by large dark nipples.

Perrin busied himself with his bathing, fighting his body’s reaction. How could he escape the room if he couldn’t stand up without revealing more than a decent man ever should? He was convinced flight was needed, and not just for propriety’s sake. Nisura had tried to hide it, but he could almost smell her satisfaction when she had seen who occupied the baths. He felt like prey, and his hackles tried to rise.

“Kensin’s heir would be uncontested. Akashi’s wife would face rivalry. Possibly even rebellion from ladies who felt they would have been better suited as Queen Regent.” Elansu spoke to her liege lady as though to an equal and Amalisa did not rebuke her. The two women were about the same age and Perrin suspected they were friends rather than simply mistress and servant.

“I wouldn’t relish it,” said Liu in a low voice.

“You don’t harbour ambitions of marrying the Prince, niece? Most young ladies your age would think him a fine prize.” Her aunt’s voice was teasing.

“Most young ladies are fools,” said Liu, sounding calm despite the sharpness of her words. “I would rather Kensin did her duty and spared us all the trouble. You know my name will be put forward if she doesn’t, daughter of the great captain as I am.”

“Better your brother or cousin should become Prince Consort then?” asked Amalisa.

Rand was watching the women out of the corner of his eye and seemed to like what he was seeing. Perrin couldn’t help but steal a glance. Liu was fully naked, her pert breasts and the triangle of jet-black hair that covered her sex on display for all to see. She was folding her dress as she spoke. “I know Kajin wouldn’t object. And he and Kensin are of an age ...”

The others were naked, too. Elansu was paler than her mistress, her breasts smaller, her nipples long; her stern face was framed by dark hair cut just short of her shoulders and her mouth framed by distinct lines that accentuated her wide cheekbones and did nothing to hide the small smile on her lips. She did not look in Rand’s direction, but Perrin had the feeling she was fully aware of his scrutiny.

Come to think of it, young Lady Nisura was looking at Perrin with the same intent stare she had worn last night. Her long black hair was pulled forward but did little to hide her large breasts, much less her wide hips. She and Elansu accepted small clay pots of something from Amalisa, a soap of some kind perhaps. Nisura smiled at Perrin and he averted his gaze again, feeling more and more like a hunted beast.

The other women held Lady Amalisa’s hands as she stepped down into the bath between Perrin and Rand. Elansu settled on the stone rim and swung her legs over, settling herself near Rand. She sighed in satisfaction as the warm water covered her up to her breasts. Perrin lost sight of her when Nisura’s fine, round bottom filled his view as she, too, sank into the water. Liu took a place off to his other side with a wry smile on her face. He tried to tell himself it was just the usual Shienaran amusement at the odd outlanders ... but there was something strange about it all this time.

“How soon will the Queen arrive?” asked Nisura as she soaped her breasts. The flesh jiggled hypnotically under her ministrations.

“The Amyrlin Seat’s arrival caught us all by surprise,” said Amalisa. “Kensin will have to leave much of her court at Fal Moran if she is to make good time, but I would be surprised again if she did anything less. With good remounts it shouldn’t take more than five days.”

“Lord Kajin will have his chance to impress her then. Or perhaps some of the other men of the keep will try their luck.” Nisura turned to Perrin and caught him looking at her chest. His face turned red. Again. “Would you like to see the Queen, Perrin?” she asked with a broad smile. “It is Perrin isn’t it?”

His tongue betrayed him. “Yes. I mean, no. I’m Perrin, but ... I ... I doubt the Queen would ... I’m sure she’s a busy woman ...”

Elansu laughed. “That one is Perrin. Mat is the skinny fellow with the roving eye. And the pretty giant here is Rand.” She reached out and patted Rand’s shoulder. He stared  at her like a deer frozen beneath the wolf’s eyes.

“They came with Moiraine Sedai,” added Liu. “Though she never did explain why ...”

Perrin let the implied question lie there unanswered. He could hardly tell them, or anyone, about Ba’alzamon and Aginor, about the wolves who spoke to him in his dreams or about Rand’s channelling the One Power; and he didn’t trust himself to come up with a convincing story to explain the admittedly odd party they had arrived here with.

Elansu dunked herself to rinse the soap from her hair. When she rose again she said, “The Queen could do worse than these two specimens, wherever they’re from.” She pushed a bowl of soap along the edge of the pool, towards Rand. “Wash my back for me? I’ll do the same for you.”

Rand bit his lip slightly. With his fair skin he had an even harder time hiding his blushes than Perrin did. “I ... well. Okay. Of course.” The women laughed softly, all save Amalisa who washed herself perfunctorily, a troubled frown on her brow.

Rand soaped up Elansu’s back and attended to her dutifully, but the woman seemed to have other things on her mind. She drifted closer to him, until there was so little space between them that he couldn’t properly move his hands to scrub her. Rand tried manfully to continue, but there was a look of alarm growing on his face.

“That’s nice,” murmured Elansu. “But here, too ...” She reached back and took one of Rand’s hands in hers. Then she pulled it forward and guided it to her breast. Perrin gaped, and Rand drew a sharp breath. The woman was old enough to be both their mothers, but her nipples stiffened visibly under Rand’s touch.

Something took hold of Perrin’s hand. Before he knew what was happening he was cupping a heavy breast in his palm. “Won’t you help wash me, too, Perrin?” asked Nisura breathily. Perrin was so shocked that he immediately made to jump out of the bath, but embarrassment stunned him before he got far. He was as hard as a rock, and had been for some time. Only the murky waters of the bath concealed his private parts from everyone’s view.

Nisura saw his dilemma and moved swiftly. A small frown marred her brow, but whatever her doubts she did not hesitate to throw a leg over his lap and kneel above him, trapping him with her lovely nakedness.

He thought he heard a soft grunt from Liu. And he saw Amalisa and Elansu exchanging a look fraught with hidden meanings before the  _ shatayan _ turned to Rand and threw her thin arms around his shoulders. Rand swallowed visibly but made no move to resist her when the old, or at least older, woman kissed his lips. In moments he was kissing her back hungrily.

Perrin had little time to wonder at his friend’s perversions. Nisura’s lips descended on his and stole the world away. Her arms around his neck held him in place as she sampled his kisses. Soon her tongue was darting out to explore his mouth. And not long after that something warmer than the bathwater engulfed his manhood. Nisura broke their kiss to throw back her head, wet black hair flying, moaning loudly as she took his length inside her.

Another moan from his right drew Perrin’s eye. Elansu was crouched above Rand’s lap. The woman lowered herself slowly, satisfaction brightening her dark eyes and leaking from her lips with each inch of him she took inside her. “All that I imagined, and more ...” she whispered. She took his face between her hands and kissed him hard as he continued to massage her soft breasts.

The great globes of Nisura’s breasts soon filled Perrin’s vision, pushed upon him by the woman who now rode him with increasing ardour. Some rational part of Perrin’s mind still tried to puzzle it out. There had been many embarrassing incidents in the baths since they had come to Fal Dara, but nothing like this. These were communal baths, anyone in the keep could walk in here at any moment, stuff like this simply didn’t happen. Unless there was another woman stationed outside, to ward off visitors. But why? He was not half so vain as to think they just wanted to avail themselves of his and Rand’s bodies. It was hard to think with Nisura bobbing up and down on his cock.

Lady Amalisa herself was right there, seemingly unconcerned that her  _ shatayan _ and her lady in waiting were riding a pair of strange cocks on either side of her. She drummed her fingers on the stone rim of the bath, eyeing the small pots of soap nearby. Unopened pots, though the washing had long since begun ...

Nisura kissed him again, driving his wariness away.

For a time he lost himself in the young woman’s lush body. He squeezed the smooth flesh of her buttocks and breasts in his rough hands and consigned his worries to the past. But, of course, they did not stay there.

From his left he heard a woman’s wry voice. “You seem to find this task well to your liking, Nisura.” Liu had drifted closer, she rested her head on one hand as she lounged nearby, watching the show with sharp black eyes. Her nipples had stiffened. When she saw Perrin staring at them she sunk farther beneath the water with what casualness she could muster.

“It does fill one quite nicely,” moaned Nisura without even looking towards the other woman.

_ Task _ , thought Perrin, fighting through his own lust-dimmed mind,  _ what task is she talking about _ ? Nisura’s eyes were squeezed shut and her mouth hung open, she was very tight and she rode Perrin’s cock feverishly, seemingly savouring every inch as it stroked her insides.

Elansu attended to Rand no less eagerly, and Rand seemed to welcome it. If his friend harboured suspicions no sign of them showed in the way he kissed the lined and mature face of the  _ shatayan _ , touching his lips to her cheeks, her closed eyes, the sides of her neck. Her hands roved over his broad chest and shoulders, caressing him as she stirred up waves around them. From the way her teeth were gritted he thought the woman near her climax.

A sharp cry from Nisura revealed that Elansu wasn’t the only one who was pushing her limit. The young lady slumped in Perrin’s arms, breathing deeply and moaning softly.

Liu smirked at the sight, and Lady Amalisa frowned at her attendant in disappointment.

Her frown turned to Elansu when the elder woman suddenly seized Rand’s head and pressed his mouth to her breast as she thrashed in his lap. Rand happily suckled upon her as she rode out her orgasm, spraying water around them both. The  _ shatayan _ looked not half so stern when she was slumped in her young lover’s arms.

Rand saw Amalisa’s disappointment and reached out to her. He took her by the hand and pulled her towards him. The lady gave a startled gasp and her niece stirred, frowning at the young man from the other side of Perrin and Nisura.

Elansu came to her senses. “Stop that you greedy boy, I’m not quite done with you yet,” she said, a touch breathlessly.

“I hoped you wouldn’t be,” Rand responded. “But Amalisa looks lonely.” He put his hands around the lady’s hips and stood her up. Water cascaded over the ripe curves of her bottom.

“I’m quite alright, thank you,” Amalisa all but yelped. But Rand didn’t seem to believe her. He pulled her forwards until she had no choice but to fall or lift a leg and step over him. She stepped over, baring a womanly thigh and the stretched skin of childbirth. Amalisa stood right over Rand and Elansu, looking down at him with wide-eyes, her black-furred sex inches from his face. Then he leaned in and kissed her hungrily.

Amalisa let out a surprised groan as Rand went to work on her pussy. Elansu seemed just as shocked to find herself staring at her mistress’ round bottom, but soon began rocking her hips along Rand’s member once more.

Nisura still lay slumped in Perrin’s arms as she gaped at the now-threesome. She stirred only when Liu reached out, took her by the shoulders and practically hauled her off Perrin’s lap.

“What are you ...?” Nisura gasped as she plopped down in the water.

Liu frowned at her aunt, whose hands had drifted down to tangle in Rand’s wet hair. “Well, if she’s going to go that far ...” she muttered. She turned her sharp, slanted eyes on Perrin. “Let’s see what we have here.” So saying, Lord Agelmar’s daughter climbed into Perrin’s lap and reached down under the water to take his throbbing manhood in her hand. “Thick,” she whispered as she held herself over him, then said no more, just sighed out her satisfaction as she slid her heat down his length.

Liu rode Perrin fiercely. She pulled the still-groggy Nisura to them and urged her to kiss Perrin’s lips and fondle his body, which the round young lady seemed happy enough to do. They both seemed very determined to bring him to orgasm and from time to time Liu’s eyes darted towards that odd pot.

Just as often Liu’s gaze went to the other three in the bath with them. Her aunt’s eyes were squeezed shut now, her breasts swayed as she rubbed herself against Rand’s mouth. Behind her Elansu rode Rand’s cock with a passion that almost matched Liu’s, though the latter was in her early twenties and the former was old enough to be her mother.

The  _ shatayan _ shocked them all even more when, spurred on by who knew what, she placed her hands on Amalisa’s cheeks, parted them and began to lick around her mistress’ butt.

The Lady of Fal Dara’s eyes shot open. “Peace!” she gasped.

Liu gasped nearly as loudly. “Elansu ...” she whispered, mouth hanging open. She didn’t stop riding Perrin though and her tight pussy, combined with Nisura’s large breasts pressed up against him and all the sights around them was bringing him closer and closer to climax.

Perrin fondled the breasts of the two young Shienarans while Rand grasped the bottoms of their elders.

It was Amalisa who came first, while being licked front and back by man and woman. She scrunched her brows together as she let out a single, loud cry, held herself stiffly in place for a long moment, then slid back down into the water, her legs wobbling. She came to rest in Rand’s lap, between he and Elansu. The  _ shatayan _ didn’t stop riding Rand’s cock, though her breasts now rubbed up and down her lady’s back. Not that she had to do it much longer.

With both of the elder Shienarans satisfied, Rand relaxed. He looked back and forth between the wide-eyed Lady Amalisa and the sharp-faced Elansu who peered over her mistress’ shoulder at him as she bobbed up and down on his cock. It wasn’t long before he groaned loudly and pushed his hips upwards.

“There we go,” whispered Elansu breathlessly. “At last.” She rested her head on Amalisa’s shoulder, red-faced from the exertion. Amalisa herself wore a rather chagrined expression as she watched Rand come.

Liu slammed her hips down on Perrin one more time and dug her nails into his shoulders. She gritted her teeth and hardly a sound escaped her, but he knew from the way her pussy quivered that she had reached her limit.

It was the fluttering of her insides that finished him off. “Light’s mercy,” he swore as he sent spurt after spurt up into her womb, trusting she had taken or would take her heartleaf tea. Thought faded for a time as he floated in the languid aftermath of sex.

“... more stamina than expected,” someone was saying. “Still, there is no reason we can’t go again.”

There was a groan. “I might possibly have underestimated the weight of my years.” He recognised the  _ shatayan _ ’s whispered voice. “And you jumped in early, Liu.”

“Well Nisura proved too ... excitable,” whispered Liu angrily.

“I did not!” objected Nisura, not very honestly.

“I’m just saying, what they’ve never had is usually more appealing to men than a second serving of what they just did,” whispered Elansu.

He didn’t think they realised he could hear them. Even with the enhanced sense of hearing that the wolves had given him, their voices sounded very low.

“Offer them the ‘medicine’ anyway. If need be we can swap places,” sighed Amalisa. “It will work quickly. You wouldn’t have had to do anything beyond look appealing if you had waited, niece.”

“Ah, well. I’ll live,” said Liu with a light laugh.

Perrin let one eye open, just a crack. He and Rand were sprawled in the bath while the four women clustered nearby, the suspicious pots that were almost certainly not soap near to hand.  _ Whatever is in that, I am not drinking it _ . But how to stop Rand from taking some without letting the women know he knew what they were up to? It was a puzzle, and there wasn’t much time to solve it. Perrin hated to be rushed.

Liu parted from the group and slid towards Rand, naked, flushed, beautiful ... and dangerous. She settled in beside him and trailed her fingers along his chest. He blinked himself out of his stupor with a foolish smile on his face.

She had her father’s strong jawline, but somehow it suited her. She smiled prettily. “You are tired, Rand? That is such a shame,” she sighed. “I liked what I saw of you; you are so strong, so handsome. You gave Elansu such pleasure. Would you think poorly of me if I said I was jealous? I’d like to have ... what she had ...” She brought her face close to his, almost but not quite close enough to kiss.

Rand licked his lips. “I ... a beautiful woman like you, Liu? I’d be crazy to say no.”

Liu’s smile was as friendly as could be. She produced her ‘medicine’. “I know it takes a while for men to recover their virility after sex. But this should help to restore you to your full ardour. Won’t you take some?” Her voice turned breathy. “I just don’t know that I could wait any longer ...”

Rand blinked at the unstoppered pot in her hand. Amalisa was sloshing her way across the pool towards Perrin, pot in hand. He had to do something. If need be he would call out a warning to Rand and they could flee the baths, rudeness be damned. Rand reached for the pot and Perrin opened his mouth.

There came a loud clamour from the doorway. Someone pounded on the wooden planks while a girl’s angry voice rebuked the intruder.

“Sheepherder. Get dressed and get out here.” The sound of Lan’s iron-toned voice had not been so welcome since that time he freed Perrin from the clutches of the Children of the Light.

“Burn me,” cursed Rand under his voice. “Every time things start to look less grim ...” Liu sniffed softly and gave him a sardonic look.

Lady Amalisa raised her voice. “If this matter is not urgent  _ Dai Shan _ , I would ask that you settle it at a later time.”

There was a momentary silence from beyond the door. Then. “My apologies, Lady Amalisa, but I cannot. The Amyrlin Seat has summoned Rand al’Thor to attend her. I am to escort him to her immediately.”

Nisura let out a groan of dismay. Elansu and Amalisa exchanged confused looks.

“The Amyrlin ...” said Amalisa slowly. “Of course, if the Amyrlin Seat calls all must answer. But why would ...?”

Liu stoppered her pot with a vexed sigh. “The left hand does not know what the right is doing,” she muttered. She patted Rand’s cheek. “Best be off with you then. I trust you enjoyed yourself? And I trust you know the value of discretion. I can make life very uncomfortable for those who do not ...” Without waiting for an answer she rose from the bath and splashed her way towards the deposit of fresh towels. Rand watched the slender young lady go with a look of regret on his face, seemingly unaware of the danger they had just escaped.

Perrin let out a long, low sigh. “I’ll come with you,” he said hastily. “You won’t want to be meeting with someone like the Amyrlin without the support of your friends.”

Elansu eyed him sharply. Her nakedness, and all that he had seen her do today, didn’t stop him from feeling nervous beneath that probing stare. He carefully avoided looking at their suspicious pots.

Rand shrugged. “Thanks, Perrin. I, ah, I know we haven’t talked much lately ... but, thanks.”

His honest gratitude almost made Perrin cringe. It wasn’t that he had been avoiding Rand he started telling himself ... then quickly dismissed that as a self-serving lie. He had absolutely been avoiding Rand. With a sigh he rose from the bath and went to dry off and get dressed. Being a male channeler wasn’t that different from being able to talk to wolves, it occurred to him. Rand was probably as afraid of himself as Perrin was, as afraid of losing his mind. And if people had good cause to be afraid of Rand—Perrin was not ashamed to admit that he was, the man could wield the very Power that had once broken the world after all—they also had good cause to be afraid of Perrin. If he lost himself to the beast within, would he be any less dangerous than a male channeler?

He found himself sitting beside Liu as they both dried off and began to get dressed. She was a beautiful woman and they had just had sex, but she had plainly only done it to entrap him. He had no idea why, and no intention of asking her directly. But in the absence of truth he was at a loss for what to say. It seemed to him that you should be able to say something to a woman after you’ve done the things he had done with her. He frowned to himself, trying out various words in his mind and finding them flawed.

Rand was reluctant to leave the bath for some reason; he just sat there for a time, staring into space. But eventually he gave his head a shake and hopped to his feet with an oddly forced smile. He waved to Elansu as he splashed his naked way to the edge of the bath and climbed out.

The ageing  _ shatayan _ gave him a wry smile as she watched him go, admiring his sculpted body with its narrow hips and wide shoulders. Perrin couldn’t help but admire it, too. Elansu and the other women sat in the murky bathwater, immersed up to their chests, looking a bit nonplussed.

Rand dressed so hastily that he was finished even before Perrin. He waited at the door.

Perrin rose with a sigh. He looked Liu in the eyes and said. “You are a very pretty woman. I’m glad I had the chance to know you like this.” Poor words, he knew. But in the context they were all he could come up with. He could hardly say he hoped to see her again. Not when he had already decided he would be avoiding every woman in Fal Dara for the rest of his stay.

Liu raised an eyebrow at him. “Thank you,” she drawled. “You are quite a handsome man yourself. Watch your back out there.”

He nodded and made his way to the door without another word, feeling awkward.

Lan awaited them outside the baths. As usual, he wore his sword over a plain coat of green that would be nearly invisible in the woods.

Rena, one of Amalisa’s daughters, was even younger than Egwene had been when she died. The girl frowned at Rand and Perrin as they approached, then frowned at Lan, too, though she seemed to have to work at that last. Lan was more than a little famous in the Borderlands. The Warder ignored her frown completely, though Perrin had no doubt he had noticed it. Lan noticed everything.

Rand gave her a bright smile, giving no indication that he had had a face full of her mother’s pussy mere minutes ago. Perrin was almost impressed.  _ If you didn’t know any better you’d think he’d done that before _ .

She didn’t return his smile, just turned away from the three men and stumped into the baths, closing the door firmly behind her.

Perrin felt a wash of relief as he watched the door to the baths close. Rand seemed more wistful, but that soon changed.

Rand turned to face Lan. “The Amyrlin then,” he said grimly.

“Yes. I told you you should have left, sheepherder,” answered Lan, proving he could still give the younger man lessons on grim.

Rand looked resigned. “I thought about it. I’m still here.”

The Warder nodded. He eyed Rand up and down, then shook his head. “That won’t serve. We’ll stop by your rooms on the way.”

Rand looked confused. “Why?”

The slight curve of Lan’s lips almost looked like a smile. But that couldn’t be so, Perrin must have been imagining it. They made their way back to the men’s apartments.


	9. The Gathering Storm

CHAPTER 11: The Gathering Storm

There was a storm coming. Nynaeve felt it. A big storm, worse than she had ever seen. She could listen to the wind, and hear what the weather would be. All Wisdoms claimed to be able to do that, though many could not. Nynaeve had felt more comfortable with the ability before learning it was a manifestation of the Power. Any woman who could listen to the wind could channel, though most were probably as she had been, unaware of what she was doing, getting it only in fits and starts.

This time, though, something was wrong. Outside, the afternoon sun was a golden ball in a clear blue sky, and birds sang in the gardens, but that was not it. There would have been nothing to listening to the wind if she could not foretell the weather before the signs were visible. There was something wrong with the feeling this time, something not quite the way it usually was. The storm felt distant, too far off for her to feel at all. Yet it felt as if the sky above should have been pouring down rain, and snow, and hail, all at the same time, with winds howling to shake the stones of the keep. And she could feel the good weather, too, lasting for days yet, but that was muted under the other.

A bluefinch perched in an arrowslit like a mockery of her weather sense, peering into the hallway. When it saw her, it vanished in a flash of blue and white feathers.

She stared at the spot where the bird had been.  _ There is a storm, and there isn’t. It means something. But what? _

Far down the hall full of women and small children she saw Rand marching towards the exit, his escort of women half running to keep up with his long-legged strides. Nynaeve nodded firmly. If there was a storm that was not a storm, he would be the centre of it. Gathering her skirts, she hurried after him.

Trepidation tried to slow her pace but she ploughed through it stubbornly. They had not had a chance to talk since the night before. What would she say? What would he? She still could not believe she had done the things she had done; with any man, but especially with him. He was younger than she, practically a little brother ... but he had not kissed her like a brother, and when he took her in his arms there had been nothing little about him.

She blushed to remember it. It had been the wine, she had drunk much more than she was used to at the Amyrlin’s welcome feast. That was all, the wine. That and the fear that he was thinking of doing something drastic.  _ It felt so good. So wrong, and yet so right _ . She took a firm hold of her braid and gave it a quelling tug.  _ Enough of that foolishness! There’s a storm brewing _ .

Women with whom she had grown friendly since coming to Fal Dara tried to speak to her; they knew Rand had come with her and that they were both from the Theren, and they wanted to know why the Amyrlin had summoned him.  _ The Amyrlin Seat! Did they already Gentle him? _ Ice in the pit of her belly, she broke into a run, but before she left the women’s apartments, she had lost him around too many corners and beyond too many people.

“Which way did he go?” she asked Aya. There was no need to say who. She heard Rand’s name in the conversation of the other women clustered around the arched doors.

“I don’t know, Nynaeve. He came out as fast as if he had Heartsbane himself at his heels. As well he might, coming here with a sword at his belt. The Dark One should be the least of his worries after that. What is the world coming to? And him presented to the Amyrlin in her chambers, no less. Tell me, Nynaeve, is he really a prince in your land?” The other women stopped talking and leaned closer to listen.

Nynaeve was not sure what she answered. Something that made them let her go on. She hurried away from the women’s apartments, head swivelling at every crossing corridor to look for him, fists clenched. She couldn’t lose another one, like she had lost Egwene, she had not enough tears left to shed.  _ Light, what have they done to him? I should have gotten him away from Moiraine somehow, the Light blind her. I’m his Wisdom _ .

_ Are you,  _ a small voice taunted _. You’ve abandoned Emond’s Field to fend for itself. Can you still call yourself their Wisdom? _

_ I did not abandon them _ , she told herself fiercely.  _ I brought Mavra Mallen up from Deven Ride to look after matters till I get back. She can deal well enough with the Mayor and the Village Council, and she gets on well with the Women’s Circle _ .

Mavra would have to get back to her own village. No village could do without its Wisdom for long. Nynaeve cringed inside. She had been gone months from Emond’s Field.

“I am the Wisdom of Emond’s Field!” she said aloud.

A liveried servant carrying a bolt of cloth blinked at her, then bowed low before scurrying off. By his face he was eager to be anywhere else.

Blushing, Nynaeve looked around to see if anyone had noticed. There were only a few men in the hall, engrossed in their own conversations, and some women in black-and-gold going about their business, giving her a bow or curtsy as she passed. She had had that argument with herself a hundred times before, but this was the first time it had come to talking to herself out loud. She muttered under her breath, then pressed her lips firmly together when she realized what she was doing.

Anna found her in the kitchens, where the bustle of the keep continued, heedless of the new arrivals and the surprise attack of the night before both. She and Rand had always been close and she knew as well as Nynaeve that he had never lacked for appetite. “I heard some people in the women’s apartments talking about Rand. Do you know what happened between him and the Amyrlin?” asked the girl, in the gruff tone she always used when trying to hide what she felt.

Rand and Anna were neighbours and almost the same age, but Nynaeve had never gotten the impression that there was anything untoward between them. She caught herself eyeing the girl suspiciously and quickly schooled her face to stillness.  _ Get a hold of yourself, woman _ .

“I saw him leave the apartments looking in a foul mood, but I haven’t been able to find him since,” she said in her best no-nonsense voice.

Anna nodded. “I’ll check near the stables. If you find him and I don’t, will you tell me later?”

“Of course.”

They parted at the next hallway. Nynaeve headed towards the baths but found nothing there either, save for a solemn-faced Lady Amalisa coming the other way with a train of ladies and the  _ shatayan _ . One and all they gave a start when she asked after Rand.

When Nynaeve had finished explaining, Liu Ling, Lady Timora’s eldest, planted her fists on her hips. “The Amyrlin let him go,” she said flatly.

The others shook their heads, looking oddly chagrined.

Nisura Guyen laughed softly. “Well. Your countryman will not be found in the baths, Nynaeve. They are being drained and cleaned at the moment.”

Amalisa had always been friendly with Nynaeve, but she was being very stiff today for some reason. When the silence stretched too long, Nynaeve excused herself and wandered on, not knowing where else Rand might be found. She was finally beginning to realize her search was futile when she came on Lan, his back to her, looking down on the outer courtyard through an arrowslit. The noise from the courtyard was all horses and men, neighing and shouting. So intent was Lan that he did not, for once, seem to hear her. She hated the fact that she could never sneak up on him, however softly she stepped. She had been accounted good at woodscraft back in Emond’s Field, though it was not a skill in which many women took any interest.

She stopped in her tracks, pressing her hands to her stomach to quiet a flutter.  _ I ought to dose myself with rannel and sheepstongue root _ , she thought sourly. It was the mixture she gave anyone who moped about and claimed they were sick, or behaved like a goose. Rannel and sheepstongue root would perk you up a little, and did no harm, but mainly it tasted horrible, and the taste lasted all day. It was a perfect cure for acting the fool.

Safe from his eyes, she studied the length of him, leaning against the stone and fingering his chin as he studied what was going on below.  _ He’s too tall, for one thing, and old enough to be my father, for another. A man with a face like that would have to be cruel. No, he’s not that. Never that. And he was a king. His land was destroyed while he was a child, and he would not claim a crown, but he was a king, for that. What would a king want with a village woman? He’s a Warder, too. Bonded to Moiraine. She has his loyalty to death, and ties closer than any lover, and she has him. She has everything I want, the Light burn her! _

He turned from the arrowslit, and she whirled to go.

“Nynaeve.” His voice caught and held her like a noose. “I wanted to speak to you alone. You always seem to be in the women’s apartments, or in company.”

It took an effort to face him, but she was sure her features were calm when she looked up at him. “I’m looking for Rand.” She was not about to admit to avoiding him. “We said all we need to say long ago, you and I. I shamed myself—which I will not do again—and you told me to go away.” It was a fine pickle really. She had offered herself to Lan only to find he wanted nothing to do with her; while Rand wanted her but was cursed with an ability that made it impossible for him to have a life with anyone. Men! They were nothing but trouble.

“I never said—” He took a deep breath. “I told you I had nothing to offer for brideprice but widow’s clothes. Not a gift any man could give a woman. Not a man who can call himself a man.”

“I understand,” she said coolly. “In any case, a king does not give gifts to village women. And this village woman would not take them. Have you seen Rand? I need to talk to him. He was to see the Amyrlin. Do you know what she wanted with him?”

His eyes blazed like blue ice in the sun. She stiffened her legs to keep from stepping back, and met him glare for glare.

“The Dark One take Rand al’Thor and the Amyrlin Seat both,” he grated, pressing something into her hand. “I will make you a gift and you will take it if I have to chain it around your neck.”

She pulled her eyes away from his. He had a stare like a blue-eyed hawk when he was angry. In her hand was a signet ring, heavy gold and worn with age, almost large enough for both her thumbs to fit through. On it, a crane flew above a lance and crown, all carefully wrought in detail. Her breath caught. The ring of Malkieri kings. Forgetting to glare, she lifted her face. “I cannot take this, Lan.”

He shrugged in an offhand way. “It is nothing. Old, and useless, now. But there are those who would know it when they see it. Show that, and you will have guestright, and help if you need it, from any House in the Borderlands. Show it to a Warder, and he will give aid, or carry a message to me. Send it to me, or a message marked with it, and I will come to you, without delay and without fail. This I swear.”

Her vision blurred at the edges.  _ If I cry now, I will kill myself _ . “I can’t ... I do not want a gift from you, al’Lan Mandragoran. Here, take it.”

He fended off her attempts to give the ring back to him. His hand enveloped hers, gentle but firm as a shackle. “Then take it for my sake, as a favour to me. Or throw it away, if it displeases you. I’ve no better use for it.” He brushed her cheek with a finger, and she gave a start. “I must go now, Nynaeve  _ mashiara _ . The Amyrlin wishes to leave before nightfall, and there is much yet to be done. Perhaps we will have time to talk on the journey to Tar Valon.” He turned and was gone, striding down the hall.

Nynaeve touched her cheek. She could still feel where he had touched her.  _ Mashiara _ . Beloved of heart and soul, it meant, but a love lost, too. Lost beyond regaining _. Fool woman! Stop acting like a girl with her hair still not braided. It’s no use letting him make you feel ... _

Clutching the ring tightly, she turned around, and jumped when she found herself face-to-face with Moiraine. “How long have you been there?” she demanded.

“Not long enough to hear anything I should not have,” the Aes Sedai replied smoothly. “We will indeed be leaving soon. I heard that. You must see to your packing.”

Leaving. It had not penetrated when Lan said it. “I will have to say goodbye to the others,” she muttered, then gave Moiraine a sharp look. “What have you done to Rand? He was taken to the Amyrlin. Why? Did you tell her about—about ...?” She could not say it. He was from her own village, and she was just enough older than he to have looked after him a time or two when he was little, and he was the only man she had ever been intimate with, but she could not speak about he had become without her stomach twisting.

“The Amyrlin will be seeing all three boys, Nynaeve.  _ Ta’veren _ are not so common that she would miss the chance to see three together in one place. Perhaps she will give them a few words of encouragement, since two will be riding with Ingtar to hunt those who stole the Horn. They will be leaving about the time we do, so you had better hurry with any farewells.”

Nynaeve dashed to the nearest arrowslit and peered down at the outer courtyard. Horses were everywhere, pack animals and saddle horses, and men hurrying about them, calling to each other. The only clear space was where the Amyrlin’s palanquin stood, its paired horses waiting patiently without any attendants. Some of the Warders were out there, looking over their mounts, and on the other side of the courtyard, Ingtar stood with a knot of Shienarans around him in armour. Sometimes a Warder or one of Ingtar’s men crossed the paving stones to exchange a word.

“I should have gotten the boys away from you,” she said bitterly, still looking out. “Egwene, too. She would still be alive if only I had made her steer clear of you.” Light, why did they have to be born with this cursed ability? Her and Egwene, and especially Rand. “I should have taken them all back home.”

“They are more than old enough to be off apron strings,” Moiraine said dryly. “And you know very well why you could never do that. For one of them, at least. Besides, it would mean forgoing Tar Valon yourself. If your own use of the Power is not schooled, you will never be able to use it against me.”

Nynaeve spun to face the Aes Sedai, her jaw dropping. She could not help it. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Did you think I did not know, child? Well, as you wish it. I take it that you are coming to Tar Valon? Yes, I thought so. As to Egwene ...” Moiraine pursed her lips and for a moment she almost looked sad. “None mourn her loss more than I. She would have made a fine Aes Sedai. Better even than you in many ways.”

Nynaeve wanted to hit her, to knock away the brief smile that flashed across the Aes Sedai’s face. Aes Sedai had not been able to wield power openly since the War of the Hundred Years, much less the One Power, but they plotted and manipulated, pulled strings like puppetmasters, used thrones and nations like stones on a stones board.  _ She wants to use me, too, somehow. If a king or a queen, why not a Wisdom? Just the way she’s using Rand. I’m no child, Aes Sedai _ .

“What are you doing with Rand now? Have you not used him enough? I don’t know why you have not had him Gentled, now the Amyrlin’s here with all those other Aes Sedai, but you must have a reason. It must be some plot you’re hatching. If the Amyrlin knew what you were up to, I wager she’d —”

Moiraine cut her off. “What possible interest could the Amyrlin have in a shepherd? Of course, if he were brought to her attention in the wrong way, he might be Gentled, or even killed. He is what he is, after all. And there is considerable anger about last night. Everyone is looking for whom to blame.” The Aes Sedai fell silent, and let the silence stretch. Nynaeve stared at her, grinding her teeth.

“Yes,” Moiraine said finally, “much better to let a sleeping lion sleep. Best you see to your packing, now.” She moved off in the direction Lan had gone, seeming to glide across the floor.

Grimacing, Nynaeve swung her fist back against the wall; the ring dug at her palm. She opened her hand to look at it. The ring seemed to heat her anger, focus her hate.  _ I will learn. You think because you know, you can escape me. But I will learn better than you think, and I will pull you down for what you’ve done. For what you’ve done to Mat, and to Perrin. For Egwene’s death. And for Rand, the Light help him and the Creator shelter him. Especially for Rand _ . Her hand closed around the heavy circlet of gold.  _ And for me _ .

She held her resolve and Lan’s ring firmly as she hastened back to the women’s apartments.

When she arrived she found Anna had already returned and was hastily packing her belongings. The fine dresses Lady Amalisa had given her were being rolled up like so many blankets ready to be stuffed into her saddlebags. Nynaeve, walking by the open door to Anna’s room, grimaced at the sight. The girl’s mother had died birthing her and she had been raised by her father, also now sadly deceased. Someone should have taken her in hand years ago, instead of letting her grow up to be so ... boyish. Nynaeve’s own mother had died when she was only little, but Mistress Barran, the Wisdom she had been apprenticed to, had seen her raised right. But there was no time for that now.

She shoved open the door to her own room, where she and Rand had made love less than a day ago. The ring in her hand had grown hot from her bodyheat. That was why she stuffed it hastily into her pocket. It wasn’t that she felt guilty. She had nothing to feel guilty about.

She set to folding her own dresses into a leather-covered travel chest. They were lovely things, gifts from the Lady Amalisa, but Nynaeve still felt good stout Theren wool was all a woman should need. It would be rude not to keep them though. Or to wear them every once in a while.

Today would be one of those once in a whiles, she decided. The riding dress caught her eye, the blue silk with red loversknots on the bosom. She draped it over the changing screen and went to get undressed.

Anna put her head into the room while Nynaeve was still buttoning herself up. “Are you ready?” She came the rest of the way in. “We must be down in the courtyard soon.” She wore plain brown breeches and a leather jerkin over a nice white shirt of, yes, silk. Nynaeve sighed.

“Almost. I met Moiraine by the way. She saws the Amyrlin met with Rand ... and did nothing to him.”

Anna closed the door behind her. “Did Moiraine not tell her, or ...?” she asked slowly.

“I’m not sure.” Nynaeve frowned. “But some of the things Rand was saying yesterday worry me. I think he might take matters into his own hands. If you follow my meaning. Someone needs to keep an eye on him, and I’m bound for Tar Valon with Mat ...”

Anna nodded. “I understand. Perrin says he’ll probably be travelling with us. Or at least that’s what the Amyrlin Seat led Perrin to believe. I’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything crazy.” She shook her head. “You know, despite all the stories I never once pictured myself as a Hunter of the Horn. Now here I am all set to go help take it back from the Shadow. All told I’d rather be heading back home. Or at least I think I would. Shienar wasn’t so bad really, for all that the Blight is just next door. Settling here wouldn’t be so terrible.” She gave an abrupt laugh. “Still, Wisdom, I won’t miss being able to bathe without looking over my shoulder the whole time.”

“Much better to bathe alone,” Nynaeve said briskly. Her face did not change, but after a moment her cheeks coloured. It had only been that one time and she had hidden herself under the water until they left. She had never realised how long men took in the bath before. Such vain creatures they were, wandering around with their muscles and their long black hair, rubbing themselves and talking nonsense as if she wasn’t even there not-watching. After that she had taken pains to ensure there was no-one else around when she bathed, and rushed through the process as fast as she could.

“I don’t think you should call me Wisdom any longer,” Nynaeve said suddenly.

Anna blinked. “Why not?”

“You are a woman, now.” Nynaeve glanced at her hair, short and unbraided as it was. “You are a woman,” she repeated firmly. The braid was just a tradition. “We are two women, a long way from Emond’s Field, and it will be longer still before we see home again. It will be better if you simply call me Nynaeve.”

Anna grinned, looking a little teary-eyed. “We will see home again, Nynaeve. We will.”

“Don’t try to comfort the Wisdom, girl,” Nynaeve said gruffly, but she smiled as she said it.

There was a knock at the door, but before Nynaeve could open it, Nisura came in, agitation all over her face. “Nynaeve, that young man of yours is trying to come into the women’s apartments.” She sounded scandalized. “And wearing a sword. Just because the Amyrlin let him enter that way ... Lord Rand should know better. He is causing an uproar. Nynaeve, you must speak to him.”

“Lord Rand,” Nynaeve snorted. “That young man is growing too big for his breeches.” She hoped not literally. What did Nisura mean by calling Rand hers? Surely no-one knew what they had done. “When I get my hands on him, I’ll lord him,” she finished, forcing a laugh.

Nisura nodded. “The best of men are not much better than housebroken.”

Nynaeve paused at the door, “But then, the best of them are worth the trouble of housebreaking.”

“Sometimes that is what it takes,” Nisura said, walking quickly. “Men are never more than half-civilized until they’re wedded.” She gave Nynaeve a sidelong glance. “Do you intend to marry Lord Rand? I do not mean to pry, but you are going to the White Tower, and Aes Sedai seldom wed—none but some of the Green Ajah, that I’ve ever heard, and not many of them—and he will make a good husband. Once he has been trained.”

Nynaeve stalked along. Nisura was telling her nothing she did not already know. She had heard the talk in the women’s apartments about a suitable wife for Rand. It had started jokingly; as tall and handsome as he was Rand often inspired such banter, even back in the Theren. But it had gotten more serious ever since his antics during the raid. If he stayed here much longer some Shienaran woman would likely try to make an honest man of him, never knowing what he was. She could marry him. And watch him go mad, watch him die. The only way to stop it would be to have him Gentled. Then she could watch him die anyway, slowly and miserably.  _ Fate is a cruel thing sometimes _ .

“I don’t think marriage is in his future ...” she said quietly.

Nisura nodded. “No-one will poach where you have a claim, but if you are going to the Tower ... There he is.”

The women gathered around the entrance to the women’s apartments, both inside and out, were all watching three men in the hallway outside. Rand, with his sword buckled over his red coat, was being confronted by Lord Agelmar and his son Kajin. Neither of them wore a sword; even after what had happened in the night, these were still the women’s apartments. Nynaeve stopped at the back of the crowd.

“You understand why you cannot go in,” Agelmar was saying. “I know that things are different in Andor, but you do understand?”

“I didn’t try to go in.” Rand sounded as if he had explained all this more than once already. “I told the Lady Nisura I wanted to see Nynaeve, and she said Nynaeve was busy, and I’d have to wait. All I did was shout for her from the door. I did not try to enter. You’d have thought I was naming the Dark One, the way they all started in on me.”

“Women have their own ways,” Kajin said. He was tall for a Shienaran, almost as tall as Rand, lanky and sallow. His topknot was black as pitch. “They set the rules for the women’s apartments, and we abide by them even when they are foolish.” A number of eyebrows were raised among the women, and he hastily cleared his throat. “You must send a message in if you wish to speak to one of the women, but it will be delivered when they choose, and until it is, you must wait. That is our custom.”

“I have to see her,” Rand said stubbornly, somehow he looked handsomer today than he ever had before.  _ It must be the fancy clothes _ , she thought. “We’re leaving soon. We will get the Horn of Valere back, and that will be the end of it. The end of it. But I want to see her before I go.” Nynaeve frowned; he sounded odd.

“No need to be so fierce,” Kajin said. “You and Ingtar will find the Horn, or not. And if not, then another will retrieve it. The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, and we are but threads in the Pattern.”

“Do not let the Horn seize you, Rand,” Agelmar said. “It can take hold of a man—I know how it can—and that is not the way. A man must seek duty, not glory. What will happen, will happen. If the Horn of Valere is meant to be sounded for the Light, then it will be.”

“Here is Nynaeve now,” Kajin said, spotting her.

Agelmar looked around, and nodded when he saw her with Nisura. “I will leave you in her hands, Rand al’Thor. Remember, here, her words are law, not yours. Lady Nisura, do not be too hard on him. He only wished to see his friend, and he does not know our ways.”

Nynaeve followed Nisura as the Shienaran woman threaded her way through the watching women. Nisura inclined her head briefly to Agelmar and Kajin; she pointedly did not include Rand. Her voice was tight. “Lord Agelmar. Lord Kajin. He should know this much of our ways by now, but he is too big to spank, so I will let Nynaeve deal with him.”

Rand raised an eyebrow at her. “I’m not that much taller than Perrin ...” he said innocently.

Nisura’s cheeks coloured and Nynaeve frowned, wondering what Perrin had to do with anything.

Agelmar gave Rand a fatherly pat on the shoulder. “You see. You will speak with her, if not exactly in the way you wished. Come, Kajin. We have much to see to yet. The Amyrlin still insists on ...” His voice trailed away as he and the other man left. Rand stood there, looking at Nynaeve.

The women were still watching, she realized. Watching her as well as Rand. Waiting to see what she would do.  _ So I’m supposed to deal with him, am I? Yet she felt her heart going out to him. His hair needed brushing. His face showed anger, defiance, and weariness _ . “Walk with me,” she told him. A murmur started up behind them as he walked down the hall beside her, away from the women’s apartments. Rand seemed to be struggling with himself, hunting for what to say.

“What did the Amyrlin Seat want with you, Rand?”

“Nothing important.  _ Ta’veren _ . She wanted to see  _ ta’veren _ .” His face softened as he looked down at her. “What about you, Nynaeve? Are you really leaving with her to become an Aes Sedai?”

She took her braid in hand. “I’m going to Tar Valon to learn how to channel the One Power. As to the rest ... we’ll see.”

He sighed. “The next time you see me, you will likely want to Gentle me.”

She looked around hastily; they were alone in their stretch of the hall. “If you don’t watch your tongue, I will not be able to help you. Do you want everyone to know?”

“Too many know already,” he said tiredly. “Nynaeve, I wish things were different, but they aren’t. I wish I could be everything you deserve, but I can’t ... Take care of yourself. And promise me you won’t choose the Red Ajah.”

She set her jaw and tugged her braid. “You take care of yourself, Rand al’Thor” she said fiercely. “If you get yourself killed I’ll box your ears until you howl for mercy.”

He laughed softly, then dared to place his hand over her fist and give it a gentle squeeze. It sent tingles along her skin, across her scalp ... and down below her belly, too, a cruel reminder of what might have been.

“Don’t,” she said in an embarrassingly weak voice. “Someone might see.”

He smiled sadly, and let her go. “Farewell, Nynaeve. Whatever happens, know that I loved you.” And then he turned and strode away from her, almost running.


	10. A New Arrival

CHAPTER 13: A New Arrival

In the distance reared a single mountain, its peak broken and split. It looked out of place there on the flat grassland, with no other in sight. A broad river flowed by the mountain, and on an island in the middle of that river was a city such as might live in a gleeman’s tale, a city surrounded by high walls gleaming white and silver beneath the warm sun. As the boat sailed closer she made out soaring towers, many joined by wondrous walkways that spanned the open air. High bridges arched from both banks of the river to the island city. Even at a distance she could see lacy stonework on those spans, seemingly too delicate to withstand the swift waters that rushed beneath them. Tar Valon, the oldest and most powerful city in the world.

Min Farshaw leaned on the railing of the  _ Spray _ and tried not to stare like some downcountry bumpkin ... but it was hard. Next to Tar Valon her home city of Baerlon seemed barely more than a village. She had been trying to convince herself that it was nothing to be worried about, travelling so far from home. Telling herself that she was a worldly woman who could handle whatever was out there beyond Baerlon’s walls. But watching that gleaming city drift closer made her feel very small and alone.

_ I’ll be fine. Who knows, it might even be for the best. A fresh start where no-one knows what I can do _ . She would miss her aunts, but it was not as if she was leaving many friends behind. Everyone in Baerlon knew about the strange girl who could see the future. Knew and kept their distance, as if she might curse them with a nasty fate. Min sighed. If she could actually alter the futures she saw she would have, many times. And perhaps not always in a positive manner. But whatever she saw happened, and whatever she tried to do to change it never worked. As gifts go it was pretty useless. Ever since she was a little girl it had caused her nothing but trouble. And it was still doing so.

She glanced at Dynahir out of the corner of her eye. The Aes Sedai had arrived in Baerlon only a few weeks after The Stag and Lion burned down. Min had never met her before, but the woman had seemed to know almost everything there was to know about her, and everyone else in Baerlon besides. She had convinced Min’s aunts, and Min herself, that it was in all their best interests for Min to accompany her to Tar Valon.

She looked nothing like Moiraine. She was tall and full-figured with skin as dark as peat and long, wavy black hair, and she spoke with an odd accent. Taraboner, the sailors had claimed. But, for all the differences between them, both Aes Sedai favoured the colours of the Blue Ajah and Min had little doubt Moiraine was behind her sudden relocation. Dynahir’s high-waisted and loose-sleeved blue dress was richly embroidered in gold thread. It made a stark contrast to Min’s plain brown coat and trousers, but she didn’t mind. She had no interest at all in fancy dresses.

Dynahir did not fail to notice Min watching her. She turned away from the sight of the city, and smiled warmly. “What do you think of Tar Valon, Min? It is a place of great beauty, yes?”

Min found herself smiling back, if in a half-hearted way. Dynahir had never been less than pleasant towards her. Firm, always certain she would get her way in the end, but pleasant. It was hard to resent her. “It’s a stunning sight. And so large. I’m worried I might get lost in it.”

“Oh, have no fear of that. The Aes Sedai know all that takes place in Tar Valon, city and nation.” Dynahir’s smile was as pleasant as ever, but Min heard the warning underneath. She wondered what the Aes Sedai would do if she hopped off the boat at the docks and wandered towards one of those arching bridges instead of the White Tower.

“You will be well taken care of in the Tower, Min. There is no need to be so glum. And here, your gift can be put to good use.”

Min gave a resigned shrug. “I really don’t know what you all expect of me. My ‘gift’ isn’t much use to anyone.” She glanced around to make sure no sailors were within earshot. “I can’t change the future, only see glimpses of what will happen. Honestly, you’re probably better off just not knowing.”

“The Amyrlin feels differently,” said Dynahir. “Even if your strange kind of Foretelling cannot be altered, knowing what will happen will allow us to be better prepared for it.” As she spoke Min’s gaze was drawn from the Aes Sedai’s face to the images that swirled around her. Most of them were incomprehensible to her, but some she knew the meaning of. That trumpet spoke of a battle Dynahir would fight in, but it would not be soon. The tattered journal was a book she would write, and the chains splattered with blood ... Min did not know the meaning, and did not want to. She shook her head and turned her gaze back to the other woman’s face. What had she been saying? Better prepared, right.

“I suppose, but ...” She cut herself off as she spotted the  _ Spray _ ’s captain approaching. When she was little Min had told everyone she met what visions she had of their future. That was one mistake she did not intend to repeat. “Here’s Captain Domon now.”

Dynahir turned to greet him. Bayle Domon was a stocky Illianer in a coat that hung to his knees. His black hair was quite a bit longer than Min’s; it fell all the way to his thick shoulders. An equally black beard left his upper lip bare. They framed a tanned and wind-burnt face that was round but not soft.

“Here we be,” said Domon, in an accent even odder to Min than Dynahir’s had been. They didn’t get many Illianers in Baerlon, they were a sea-faring folk for the most part. “Swiftest passage down the Erinin, Fortune prick me if it be no.”

The Aes Sedai inclined her head a fraction. “Your coin is well-earned, captain. Jaim?”

Dynahir’s hulking Warder, ever mindful of his Aes Sedai’s safety, had been swift to move to her side when he saw the captain approach. He produced a coin pouch and began counting out what they owed, moving his lips as he did so.

Domon’s  _ Spray _ had been the second vessel they had travelled on since leaving Baerlon. The first had taken them up the Arindrelle River to the town of Nesum on the easternmost border of Tar Valon’s territory. It had proven a smaller version of Baerlon, walled for safety and with well-maintained docks, familiar enough to lure Min into a false sense of security. The Aes Sedai defended it jealously as it was their only access to the Arindrelle and all the lands that great river touched on. Beyond Nesum they had ridden along an oft-broken road through land that was only sparsely populated until they approached the fertile farmlands that touched on the Erinin. The fishing town of Deane’s Bounty, upriver of Tar Valon, had been where they took passage with Captain Domon.

Dynahir had paid for Min’s passage and seen her safe and fed, but had little to say to her beyond that. The Aes Sedai spent most of her time writing in her journal. Her topknotted Warder had proven more friendly, but it was difficult to make sense of what he was saying sometimes. He seemed a nice man underneath it all, but a blow from a Whitecloak’s mace had apparently robbed him of his wits years ago.

As Domon settled up with his passengers, his first mate directed the  _ Spray _ towards an opening in the tall white walls of Tar Valon. The northern docks of the city were cupped within a protected harbour, partially sheltered by the towered walls that extended out into the water. In that harbour dozens of vessels loaded and unloaded their wares. The  _ Spray _ curved smoothly in beside the first dock, thick timbers sitting on heavy, tar-coated pilings, and stopped with a backing of oars that swirled the water to froth around the blades. As the oars were drawn in, sailors tossed cables to men on the dock, who fastened them off with a flourish, while other crewmen slung the bags of wool over the side to protect the hull from the dock pilings.

Before the boat was even pulled snug against the dock, carriages appeared at the end of the dock, tall and lacquered, each one with a name painted on the door in large letters, gold or scarlet. The carriages’ passengers hurried up the gangplank as soon as it dropped in place, smooth-faced women in gleaming silk dresses and fur-lined cloaks and cloth slippers, each followed by a plainly dressed servant carrying an iron-bound moneybox.

His business with Jaim concluded, Domon went to greet the merchants, and the Aes Sedai led her Warder below to gather their things.

Min was on her way to join them—the Aes Sedai had paid for everything on their journey, the least she could do was carry her own belongings—when Captain Domon left the merchants to intercept her.

“You be leaving us now, girl?” He looked conflicted. “Fortune prick me, mayhap I should no say a thing but ... can you channel? Is that why the Aes Sedai do bring you here, and watch you so sharply?”

Min laughed lightly. “Me? Channel? No captain, certainly not.” She would have said more but she was at a loss to explain the Aes Sedai’s interest in her without revealing her viewings to him. And she was determined to keep those as secret as she could in this new life.

Domon nodded. “Good, good. Not that there be anything wrong with that, but ... well, if you no be joining the Aes Sedai then mayhaps you be in some kind of trouble, is what I be thinking. So. The  _ Spray _ will sail for Illian at noon tomorrow. The cabin you’ve been using will no be occupied. Or mayhaps it will be. Is all I be saying.” He combed thick fingers through his beard as he spoke.

Min blinked in surprise. “That’s very kind of you, captain.” Oddly kind. Domon had been full of stories of all the places he’d visited. He seemed to have a liking for antiques and history. Their passage on the Spray had been the most enjoyable part of Min’s journey in no small part due to the captain’s stories, but she was at a loss to explain why he would try to ‘rescue’ her from the Aes Sedai. For that was plainly what he was doing.

Domon shrugged his heavy shoulders. “If you find yourself no liking Tar Valon as much as you thought, remember the  _ Spray _ . Go careful, girl. Aes Sedai be tricky sorts.” With one last nod, he turned on his heel and strode back to the merchants, arms spreading wide as he began an apology for keeping them waiting.

Min stared after him. Maybe he fancied her. She did like older men, learned and well-travelled. She usually liked them from afar though, the few times people had gotten physical with her had ended badly. Her short hair and the boy’s clothes she wore put most men off. Breeches were far more practical than skirts, easier to work in. Not that she would ever work in a stables again after ... She hurried off towards the cabin, not wanting to think about that. It didn’t matter anyway. She already knew the name of the man she would fall in love with, and it wasn’t Bayle Domon.

In the cramped cabin she hastily gathered her belongings. She had several changes of clothes, mostly shirts and trousers but Aunt Jan had insisted she bring at least one dress. Min had not had the heart to argue with her, not then, but she had no intention of ever wearing it. There was a respectable amount of coin in her purse, both the one at her hip and the larger one within her travel bag. Min had never been idle with her time. She had worked as a stablehand, a tavern girl, a maid at an inn. She had even tried to get a job at the mines, like her father before her, but the quarrymaster had just laughed her away. The coin she hid under her unwashed clothes, in hopes that would deter any would-be thief.

The last things she packed were her much-read books. They looked ragged but they were her most prized possessions. She had brought a few favourites with her for the journey, and if there was one good thing about this change in her circumstance it was that she would have the opportunity to visit the famed library of Tar Valon.  _ That should be worth getting pestered over a few silly viewings _ .

Min shouldered her bags and made her way back to the deck.

The Aes Sedai and her Warder were waiting for her at the top of the gangplank. Jaim easily hefted both their belongings, leaving Dynahir free to look gracious and poised. In Min’s experience Aes Sedai did not like to look anything but, especially when strangers could see them. The way she held her head as she descended to the docks of Tar Valon, like a queen descending from her throne, showed that Dynahir Rashamon was no different.

Min combed her fingers through her short hair and followed the Aes Sedai with a wry smile on her face. She looked back only once, and found Captain Domon standing by the railing watching them go. She gave him a cheerful wave. She wasn’t really planning to take him up on his offer, but just knowing that there was another option made her feel less like a prisoner.

The streets of Tar Valon were packed with people dressed in so many colours they made her think of a field of wildflowers. All gave way before the Aes Sedai, even if it meant pushing into a stranger’s doorway. But it wasn’t fear that drove them back, the faces were friendly, respectful, awed even. The city seemed a wonderland to Min and she gave up the pretence of being worldly to gape around her. Even the meanest structure seemed a palace that Governor Ada would be jealous of. It was as though the builders had been told to take stone and brick and tile and create beauty to take the breath of mortals. There was no building, no monument that did not make her stare with goggling eyes.

The street by which she left the docks, broad and paved with smooth, grey stone, stretched straight before her toward the centre of the city. At its end loomed a tower larger and taller than any other, a tower as white as fresh-fallen snow. The White Tower.

Music drifted down the streets, a hundred different songs, but all blending with the clamour of the crowds. The scents of sweet perfumes and sharp spices, of wondrous foods and myriad flowers, all floated in the air. But for all the wonders before her, Min grew increasingly troubled. For a second she glimpsed a raven above a moon-faced shopkeepers head and knew he would die by the sword. A sickly green aura around the lovely golden-haired girl who played her lute so happily promised a short life. Arrows and spears appeared in many men’s hands, but only Min could see them.  _ This city will not always be so peaceful. There are dark days ahead _ .

The streets flowed into a huge square in the middle of the city, and for the first time she saw that the White Tower rose from a great palace of pale marble, sculpted rather than built, curving walls and swelling domes and delicate spires fingering the sky. The whole of it made her gasp in awe. Soldiers in silvered plate and mail with snowy white tabards stood watch at every door and walkway. The sight of them reminded Min of Whitecloaks though she doubted these men would appreciate the comparison. Broad stairs of pristine stone led up from the square to massive doors carved in intricate scrollwork so delicate she could not imagine a knife blade fine enough to fit.

The doors seemed too heavy for even Jaim to move, but Dynahir pushed one open with a single slender hand.

“Be welcome, Elmindreda Farshaw,” said the Aes Sedai with an air of formality, “to the White Tower.”

Min had never felt smaller than she did when stepping through those huge doors into that tall and famed place. She hadn’t even the heart to object to the use of her full name.

Inside, archways almost surrounded a large, round entry hall beneath a domed ceiling. The pale stone floor looked as though it had been polished to a mirror’s sheen.

A handful of women about Min’s age or younger sat on a plain bench to one side of the chamber, as though waiting for someone. They wore demure white dresses with no decoration except for seven bands of colour at the hem. One woman, her yellow hair tied tightly back, made to rise at their entrance but her wispy-looking friend caught her by the arm after one look at Dynahir’s ageless face. She whispered something and the first woman sat back down, squinting their way.  _ Her eyesight must be bad _ , Min thought with a stab of sympathy. Her Aunt Rana had often warned that Min’s eyes would go bad if she didn’t spend less time reading and more time outdoors. The idea of losing her sight had always horrified her.

Dynahir strolled to the centre of the entry hall and summoned one of the girls to her with a glance and a single graceful flick of her wrist. “Daniele,” she said after the chosen girl had hastened over to her. “Has the guest chamber I requested been made available?”

“It has, Dynahir Sedai. We were told to expect you today.” This Daniele was a tall whip of a woman with coppery skin and long, straight black hair. She stood upright before the Aes Sedai with her hands folded behind her back, like a soldier reporting for duty, but there was something challenging about her dark eyes and the set of her jaw.

If Dynahir saw it, too, she did not care. “That is well. Kindly summon a Novice to escort young Min to her new home. She will be staying with us for some time.”

Daniele gave Min a speculative glance. “I understand Aes Sedai. Do you want me to pass the news on to the other Accepted?”

Dynahir shook her head reproachfully. “The matter is being addressed,” she said. Then added under her breath. “By those more versed in subtlety.”

_ They’re going to be watching me _ , Min realised. She had the sudden impulse to turn and run back to Captain Domon’s ship. She wondered if Daniele and her white-robed friends would jump her if she tried. Min had chosen to come here of her own free will, albeit under the strenuous advice of her aunts and an Aes Sedai, but that didn’t mean she liked feeling that she had no choice in whether she stayed or not.  _ I get quite enough of inevitability from my viewings, thank you very much _ .

The Aes Sedai turned to her. “You have been a pleasant travelling companion, Min. I hope that I shall hear good things of you in the future. May the Light watch over you.”

“Thanks, Dynahir,” she said with a wry smile, “It’s been fun. I hope our future meeting is a long way off.”

The Aes Sedai froze, studying Min carefully, and the Accepted frowned at her. Min made her smile as friendly as she could. It sometimes helped at times like this.

Dynahir gave a small shrug. “Quite. Daniele, you have a task. Jaim, with me.” She turned and glided towards an archway, her huge Warder striding along behind her. Jaim gave Min a single broad grin as they parted and then she was alone with the girls in white, all of whom stared at her with credible imitations of the still faces of Aes Sedai. All save Daniele, who strode off towards a different arch, her long legs eating the distance quickly.

“Sooo,” Min said after a lengthy silence. “Do you get many visitors in the Tower? Bards or gleemen maybe?” No-one answered. She suspected not. The Tower didn’t seem a place for music. That was a pity; she had enjoyed the last dance she’d been to, when Rand and his friends passed through Baerlon, and gave the place a good stirring as they did.

_ Stirred my life up, certainly. But what will happen to me now? _ She knew part of it. She couldn’t see her own future the way she saw others’, but occasionally she caught glimpses of it in the futures of the people closest to her. What she had seen of herself around Rand was not what she would have expected. Not at all.

The stares of the Accepted were making her uncomfortable. She gave a plump, blue-eyed girl her most winning grin. “How do you know when it’s time for dinner here? I imagine a fancy place like this has some pretty great cooks.” The girl glanced at her fellows uncertainly, but maintained her silence.

The sound of Daniele’s swift footsteps came as a relief. She blew out a sigh as she turned to face the copper-skinned Accepted, then found herself staring, open-mouthed. The Accepted hadn’t come alone ... she had brought the future with her.

The future wore a pure white dress; a Novice come to lead her deeper into the Tower and dressed accordingly. Min was only vaguely aware of it. She was as tall as the Accepted who summoned her, but fair where she was dark, with red-gold curls that fell down her back, pale, unblemished skin and bright blue eyes. She was stunning, no-one could deny it, but it was not her beauty that left Min gaping.  _ I’ve seen this girl before. She was one of the three _ . Her heart was thundering in her chest.  _ What am I supposed to say to her? _

The stranger with the familiar face ran a sharp eye over the room and gave a small sigh. “Dinner is available after the fifth bell,” she said with a welcoming smile. “I suspect you will find little fault with Cook Laras’ work. I know I do not.” She advanced gracefully on Min and took her unresisting hand. “I am Elayne, a Novice of the White Tower. I have been tasked with helping you familiarise yourself with your new surroundings. If there is anything I can do for you, please feel free to ask.”

Min was still staring. Daniele wore an oddly knowing smile and she heard one of the Accepted behind her snigger.  _ Say something, you looby! _

She blinked and summoned a smile, but was sadly unable to suppress the blush that darkened her cheeks. “Uh, it’s nice to meet you, Elayne. I’ll try to learn my way quickly, and make things as easy for you as I can.”

Elayne’s smile brought out her dimples. She was the prettiest girl Min had ever seen. “I’m sure you’ll be no trouble at all. If you would follow me, please, I shall escort you to your chambers.”

She adjusted the straps of her bags as they hung from her shoulders and fended off Elayne’s wordless offer to carry one for her. Side by side they walked farther into the White Tower.

“The gardens are free for anyone’s use,” Elayne said as they strolled down a covered walkway. “Though planting and picking the flowers is, of course, reserved for the appropriate gardeners.” The flowers visible on the green beyond were no doubt pretty, but Min’s thoughts were too full of the girl at her side to pay much heed to plants.

She licked her lips and tried to recover her aplomb. “So, Elayne. Where are you from? Your accent sounds a little Andoran.”

She laughed in delight. “I would say my accent sounds a lot Andoran. You are quite right, I was born in Caemlyn. And you are a fellow countrywoman. From Baerlon, I was told?”

Min found herself relaxing. She seemed nice, this Elayne. Easy to get along with. That was a huge relief, all told. “Yes. A great city, I used to think. But seeing Tar Valon puts things in perspective. Is Caemlyn as big as this?”

Elayne nodded solemnly. “Bigger, in truth, though not as old. In Caemlyn you will find a mix of old Ogier-built structures and newer buildings that were the making of humans alone. Here in Tar Valon, the original builders’ designs are strictly maintained. It gives the city an air of eternity, I’ve often thought. But in saying this, let us not speak too harshly of Baerlon. The industry of the frontier miners is of great value to Andor.”

Min smiled crookedly, feeling oddly touched by the praise. “My da was a miner,” she said.

“I hope you shall not miss him too terribly. Leaving home can be hard, I know.”

She gave a little shrug. “Actually he died years ago. His sisters finished raising me in his place.”

Elayne winced. “I beg your pardon, Min. I should not have spoken of him without knowing your circumstances.” She closed her eyes and made a fist. “I really must do better.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” she said hastily. “Honestly, there’s no reason to get upset.”  _ She holds herself to some pretty high standards, this Elayne. I wonder why _ . She cast about for a change of subject. “So, have you been in Tar Valon long?”

Elayne straightened her shoulders. “I only just recently arrived in the Tower myself. Roughly a month ago.”

“So you’re a novice Novice.”

She giggled. “Yes. That would be rather accurate.”

“Well I wouldn’t have known it if you hadn’t told me,” she said with a grin.

Elayne seemed pleased. “I do try. I shall be at your disposal for the next few days. If there is anything I can do to make you feel more at home here, it would be both a duty and a pleasure.”

“You know, Elayne. I think you and I are going to be great friends,” Min said. She surprised them both by bursting out laughing. Fate was a strange, strange thing.

The red-haired girl blinked once, her smile turning slightly tremulous. “I would like that. I never ... I never mind getting to know new people,” she said, finishing her sentence more firmly than she started it. “And here we are,” she announced, gesturing ahead.

The door she pointed to was one of dozens of identical ones in a featureless corridor of white stone. Min looked around her with a sinking feeling. “This is my room, I take it?”

“It is. The chambers are not exactly luxurious, but there is no need to confine yourself to them. I hope to see you about the Tower in the coming months.”

Min smiled glumly. “Likewise. But I have an embarrassing confession to make. I haven’t been paying the slightest attention to where we were going. I fear I’m lost already.” She hung her head dramatically. “So much for making things easy for you.”

Elayne just laughed. “Well, then I shall simply have to visit you early tomorrow. I will escort you all around the Tower, whether you like it or not!”

“I’ll take that punishment, and gladly,” Min said with a matching laugh. She unlatched the door to her new room and shouldered her way in.

Her room in the Tower was bigger than her room in the attic above her aunts’ shop, but smaller than the good rooms Mistress Fitch had kept for her wealthier clients at The Stag and Lion. It had a narrow window and a narrow bed with clean-looking sheets. A dresser with a mirror and chair, and a heavy oak wardrobe completed the furnishings. Min deposited her bags at the foot of the wardrobe for later.

“It’s bigger than the rooms in the Novice Quarters at least,” said Elayne cheerfully. She stood in the doorway with her hands folded before her. Waiting for an invitation, Min realised.  _ So polite! _

“Come on in. My cell is your cell,” she said with a wave of her arm and an irreverent grin.

“A cell?” Elayne’s fine orange brows rose almost to her hairline. “Surely you are not a prisoner here?”

“Ah, don’t mind me. I’m only joking. Though the Aes Sedai that came to fetch me didn’t seem very likely to take no for an answer.” She’d also brought several very fat purses for Mistress Fitch. Enough to rebuild The Stag and Lion ... if Min would come with her. She had a bad enough reputation in Baerlon, without being the ungrateful employee who left her boss penniless and living on the street.

“Why did they bring you here, if I may ask? You can’t channel. I would know. And besides, you would be sent to the Novice Quarters if you could, not the guest wing.”

Min hesitated. She didn’t want anyone to know about her viewings, and she still hadn’t come up with a convincing story to explain the Aes Sedai’s interest in her. They had been getting along well, she’d even begun to hope that they might become friends.  _ Though, depending on exactly what my viewing meant, that could actually make things worse _ . Her viewings usually made things worse, in fact. How would Elayne respond it she knew about them? She opened her mouth ... but the lie died on her tongue. Lying to Elayne seemed very wrong somehow.

Abruptly a crown appeared among Elayne’s curls, a wreath of roses wrought in yellow gold, contrasting with the red gold of her hair.

“You are going to be a queen some day,” Min blurted.

Elayne pursed her lips. “I didn’t think you knew who I was.”

Min shook her head. The crown was still there. But only to her eyes, she knew. “Who you are? What do you mean? Who are you?”

“I am Elayne Trakand, Daughter-Heir of Andor. But you knew this already, no?”

She gaped. “The Daughter-Heir?” That made the least sense of all.  _ Why would the Daughter-Heir of Andor even consider ... for that matter, why would I!? _

“You didn’t know? Then why would you think I would become Queen?” She raised a hand to her mouth. “Was it only a compliment? Did I give myself away? I rather liked the idea of my House name being secret, at least for a time. It would have been nice to be just Elayne for once, and not Mother’s heir.”

Min knew what it was like to want to escape who you were. On reflection, she didn’t much care that Elayne was a princess. Min had never been one for proprieties, despite her aunts’ best efforts. But she imagined a lot of folk would treat you different if they knew your mother was a queen with a massive army and more money than she could ever spend. They certainly did when they found out you could see the future. Most of them anyway. Rand and his friends hadn’t been too put out by it, to her relief. Maybe Elayne wouldn’t be either.  _ We can both have a fresh start, or neither of us can _ .

She took a deep breath and stood as tall as she could, which was still a few inches shorter than Elayne. “Well, now I know your secret. It seems only fair you know mine. I rather liked the idea of no-one knowing it, too, but ...”

Elayne raised a hand. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” But she came the rest of the way into Min’s room and closed the door discreetly behind her.

“I appreciate that. But maybe it’s best to do this now, rather than later.” She combed her fingers through her hair nervously. “So, it’s, ah ... well, the Aes Sedai say I see pieces of the Pattern. I don’t know about that, it sounds too fancy. But I do see things when I look at people, images and auras that no-one else can see and sometimes I know what they mean. For that person’s future, I mean. I look at a man and a woman who’ve never even talked to one another, and I know they’ll marry. And they do. That sort of thing.” Elayne’s eyes had gotten even bigger as she listened. “I saw a crown on your head just now. It was made of golden roses.”

“The Rose Crown of Andor,” Elayne said in awe. “That’s incredible, Min. Where did you acquire such a gift?”

That was better than making warding signs against evil at least. “It’s not much of a gift,” she scoffed. “I just see what’s going to happen. I can’t change it. Sometimes trying to change it is exactly what causes it to happen, and then people get mad at you. Or they get mad at you for doing nothing and ‘letting’ the bad things come to pass. As if I had a say in the matter.” She scowled bitterly. “I don’t though. Fate is far beyond my control.”

Elayne rested her hand on Min’s shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. “It’s alright, Min. I understand. I won’t ask you to change the future, or blame you for anything that it holds.”

“You don’t think I’m a freak then?” Min asked warily.

Elayne smiled kindly. “I think you’re very special. And I think you were right. You and I are going to be great friends.”

Relief washed over Min and she gave Elayne an impulsive hug. The other girl gave a surprised start, before hugging her back hesitantly. Fate was strange indeed. But sometimes it could be a lovely kind of strange.


	11. A Deepening Darkness

CHAPTER 16: A Deepening Darkness

For once, Ingtar called a halt to the day’s march with the sun still golden above the horizon.

The toughened Shienarans were feeling the effects of what they had seen in the village. Ingtar had not stopped so early before, and the campsite he chose had the look of a place that could be defended. It was a deep hollow, almost round, and big enough to hold all the men and horses comfortably. A sparse thicket of scrub oak and leatherleaf covered the outer slopes. The rim itself stood more than high enough to hide anyone in the campsite even without the trees. The height nearly passed for a hill, in that country.

“All I’m bloody saying,” he heard Uno tell Ragan as they dismounted, “is that I bloody saw her burn you. Just before we found the goat-kissing Halfman. The same flaming woman as at the flaming ferry. She was there, and then she bloody wasn’t. You say what you bloody want to, but you watch how you flaming say it, or I’ll bloody skin you myself, and burn the goat-kissing hide, you sheep-gutted milk-drinker.”

Rand paused with one foot on the ground and the other still in the stirrup.  _ The same woman? But there wasn’t any woman at the ferry, just some curtains blowing in the wind. And she couldn’t have gotten to that village ahead of us if there had been. The village ... _

He shied away from the thought. Even more than the Fade nailed to the door, he wanted to forget that room, and the flies, and the people who were there and not there. The Halfman had been real— everybody had seen that—but the room ...  _ Maybe I’m going mad already _ . He wished Moiraine was there to talk to.  _ Wishing for an Aes Sedai. You are a fool _ .

“Packhorses and supplies in the middle,” Ingtar commanded as the lancers went about setting up camp. “Rub the horses down, then saddle them again in case we must move quickly. Every man sleeps by his mount, and there’ll be no fires tonight. Watch changes every two hours. Uno, I want scouts out, as far as they can ride and return before dark. I want to know what is out there.”

_ He’s feeling it _ , Rand thought.  _ It isn’t just some Darkfriends and a few Trollocs and maybe a Fade anymore _ . Just some Darkfriends and a few Trollocs, and maybe a Fade! Even a few days before there would not have been any “just” about it. Even in the Borderlands, even with the Blight less than a day’s ride, Darkfriends and Trollocs and Myrddraal had been bad enough for a nightmare, then. Before he had seen a Myrddraal nailed to a door.  _ What in the Light could have done that? What not in the Light? _ Before he had walked into a room where a family had had their supper and their laughter cut off.  _ I must have imagined it. I must have _ . Even in his own head he did not sound very convincing. He had not imagined the wind on the tower top, or the Amyrlin saying—

“Rand?” He jumped as Ingtar spoke at his shoulder. “Are you going to stay all night with one foot in the stirrup?”

Rand put his other foot on the ground. “Ingtar, what happened back at that village?”

“Trollocs took them. The same as the people at the ferry. That is what happened. The Fade ...” Ingtar shrugged and stared down at a flat, canvas-wrapped bundle, large and square, in his arms; he stared at it as if he saw hidden secrets he would rather not know. “The Trollocs took them for food. They do it in villages and farms near the Blight, too, sometimes, if a raid gets past the border towers in the night. Sometimes we get the people back, and sometimes not. Sometimes we get them back and almost wish we hadn’t. Trollocs don’t always kill before they start butchering. And Halfmen like to have their ... fun. That’s worse than what the Trollocs do.” His voice was as steady as if he were talking of every day, and perhaps he was, for a Shienaran soldier.

Rand took a deep breath to steady his stomach. “The Fade back there didn’t have any fun, Ingtar. What could nail a Myrddraal to a door, alive?”

Ingtar hesitated, shaking his head, then pushed the big bundle at Rand. “Here. Moiraine Sedai told me to give you this at the first camp south of the Mora. I don’t know what is in it, but she said you would need it. She said to tell you to take care of it; your life may depend on it.”

Rand took it reluctantly; his skin prickled at the touch of the canvas. There was something soft inside. Cloth, maybe. He held it gingerly.  _ He doesn’t want to think about the Myrddraal either _ .  _ What happened in that room? _ He realized suddenly that for him, the Fade, or even that room, was preferable to thinking about what Moiraine might have sent him.

“I was told to tell you at the same time that if anything happens to me, the lances will follow you.”

“Me!” Rand gasped, forgetting the bundle and everything else. Ingtar met his incredulous stare with a calm nod. “That’s crazy! I’ve never led anything but a flock of sheep, Ingtar. They would not follow me anyway. Besides, Moiraine can’t tell you who your second is. It’s Uno.”

“Uno and I were called to Lord Agelmar the morning we left. Moiraine Sedai was there, but it was Lord Agelmar who told me. You are second, Rand.”

“But why, Ingtar? Why?” Moiraine’s hand was bright and clear in it, hers and the Amyrlin’s, pushing him along the path they had chosen, but he had to ask.

The Shienaran looked as if he did not understand it either, but he was a soldier, used to odd commands in the endless war along the Blight. “I heard rumours from the women’s apartments that you were really a ...” He spread gauntleted hands. “No matter. I know you deny it. Just as you deny the look of your own face. Moiraine Sedai says you’re a shepherd, but I never saw a shepherd with a heron-mark blade. No matter. I’ll not claim I would have chosen you myself, but I think you have it in you to do what is needed. You will do your duty, if it comes to it.”

Rand wanted to say it was no duty of his, but instead he said, “Uno knows about this. Who else Ingtar?”

“All the lances. When we Shienarans ride, every man knows who is next in line if the man in command falls. A chain unbroken right down to the last man left, even if he’s nothing but a horseholder. That way, you see, even if he is the last man, he is not just a straggler running and trying to stay alive. He has the command, and duty calls him to do what must be done. If I go to the last embrace of the mother, the duty is yours. You will find the Horn, and you will take it where it belongs. You will.” There was a peculiar emphasis in Ingtar’s last words.

The bundle in Rand’s arms seemed to weigh ten stone.  _ Light, she could be a hundred leagues off, and she still reaches out and tugs the leash. This way, Rand. That way. You’re the Dragon Reborn, Rand _ . “I don’t want the duty, Ingtar. I will not take it. Light, I’m just a shepherd! Why won’t anybody believe that?”

“You will do your duty, Rand. When the man at the top of the chain fails, everything below him falls apart. Too much is falling apart. Too much already. Peace favour your sword, Rand al’Thor.”

“Ingtar, I—”

But Ingtar was walking away, calling to see if Uno had the scouts out yet. Perrin approached him and volunteered to take first watch. Those trees would be well-suited to an archer, he said, while there was still light to see by. Anna was quick to step forward and add her voice to his. Rand wondered what had passed between those two; they spent a lot more time in each other’s company now than they had back in the Theren, but there was a stiffness about the way they spoke to each other that hadn’t been there before. Ingtar sent Perrin south and Anna north and cautioned them to keep a sharp look out.

Rand stared at the bundle in his arms and licked his lips. He was afraid he knew what was in it. He wanted to look, yet he wanted to throw it in a fire without opening it; he thought he might, if he could be sure it would burn without anyone seeing what was inside, if he could be sure what was inside would burn at all. But he could not look there, where other eyes than his might see.

He glanced around the camp. The Shienarans were unloading the pack animals, some already handing out a cold supper of dried meat and flatbread. Others tended their horses, and Loial sat on a stone reading a book, with his long-stemmed pipe clenched between his teeth and a wisp of smoke curling above his head. Gripping the bundle as if afraid he might drop it, Rand sneaked into the trees.

Knowing how keen his friends’ eyes were, he made sure to put some distance between himself and the camp before stopping. He knelt in a small clearing sheltered by thick-foliaged branches and set the bundle on the ground. For a time he just stared at it. She wouldn’t have. She couldn’t. A small voice answered,  _ Oh, yes, she could. She could and would _ . Finally he set about untying the small knots in the cords that bound it. Neat knots, tied with a precision that spoke loudly of Moiraine’s own hand; no servant had done this for her. She would not have dared let any servant see.

When he had the last cord unfastened, he opened out what was folded inside with hands that felt numb, then stared at it, his mouth full of dust. It was all of one piece, neither woven, nor dyed, nor painted. A banner, white as snow, big enough to be seen the length of a field of battle. And across it marched a rippling figure like a serpent scaled in gold and crimson, but a serpent with four scaled legs, each tipped with five golden claws, a serpent with eyes like the sun and a golden lion’s mane. He had seen it once before, and Moiraine had told him what it was. The banner of Lews Therin Telamon, Lews Therin Kinslayer, in the War of the Powers. The banner of the Dragon.

Anger boiled up in Rand, anger at Moiraine and the Amyrlin Seat, pushing him, pulling him. Moiraine wanted him to be a puppet on Tar Valon strings, a false Dragon for the Aes Sedai. She was going to push it down his throat whatever he wanted. He crumpled up the banner in both hands, words boiling out uncontrollably. “I—will—not—be—used!”

Yet, if the Aes Sedai were intent on pulling his strings, even from afar like this, what could he do? He anger burned out as quickly as it had come and he hung his head, suddenly weary. He only knew of one solution to the problems he faced.  _ Ingtar doesn’t need me to find the Horn. The White Tower can’t make me its monster if I’m dead _ .

Rand knelt there for some time, staring at the banner in his hands.

There came a rustling sound from the surrounding foliage and he instinctively began rolling up the banner, then let his hands fall lax. What did it matter if someone saw him with it and recognised the creature? They’d attack him most like, and he told himself he would not resist when they did. At least he wouldn’t get anyone else killed, like he had Egwene.

As weary and disheartened as he was, he still gave a single, slow blink of surprise when Masema emerged from the trees clad in his quilted wool doublet.

The man studied Rand, his upper lip quivering back to bare teeth. Rand did not think it was supposed to be a smile. “Well,” he said finally. “A fancy banner, with some weird snake-thing on it. And fancy dressed for your kind. Did somebody catch you young in the Eastern Marches and tame you? You don’t look so tall down on your knees.”

Rand sighed and lowered his eyes. “I’m not what you think I am,” he said listlessly.

Masema’s harsh voice lashed at him. “What are you then?”

It was a good question. Not too long ago Rand would have known the answer. Now?  _ I’m a male channeler. I’m wanted by the Shadow. I’m a madman in the making. I’m a monster fit to frighten children _ . All of those things were true, and none of them were the truth. Who was he? His eyes drifted to Moiraine’s damn banner and he shuddered.  _ No. I’m not that. Definitely not that _ .

“You know what I think? I think you’re another murderous savage. Another blood-haired, ice-eyed monster. And I know how to deal with the likes of that.” Masema strode across the clearing towards him. Rand glanced up from where he knelt, saw the hate in the man’s deep-set, nearly black eyes, saw the sword strapped to his back ... and did nothing. It was not the end he would have chosen, but perhaps there was truth to Masema’s words. He had not chosen to be born the way he was, but he still had to answer for it.

Masema took him by the hair and bared his throat. Rand quashed the impulse to fight back. He deserved this.

“Pretty-boy savage. Prancing around in your fancy clothes, while good men are forced to fight the Shadow and you at the same time,” snarled Masema, and for the first time Rand saw the pain that lay behind his anger.

The Shienaran stepped behind Rand and he waited for the sound of steel being drawn ... but it was the clink and rustle of a belt being undone that reached his ears and he suddenly wondered exactly what kind of sword Masema intended to use on him. And did it matter? He still deserved to be punished.

Hard hands pushed him forward onto all fours with the hated banner laying crumpled in the dirt before him. Ungentle fingers gripped the band of his breeches and yanked downward, exposing his bottom to the cool evening air.

“Not even going to fight back? You people are all crazy,” said Masema, his breath coming heavy.

A heavy weight thudded to the ground behind him and something hot and stiff pressed against his ass. Rand did nothing as Masema pushed his cock inside him but his cheeks coloured in shame. This was not the kind of punishment he had thought the man had wanted to dish out. The glittering banner on the ground held his eye as Masema began to ride him, hard and fast.

“Smooth and hairless,” the Shienaran gritted. “That’s an ass that was made to be fucked.”

That was as close to a compliment as he was ever likely to get from this man, Rand thought. Masema began pulling at Rand’s coat, undoing the buttons, yanking it off one arm at a time, tossing it aside and exposing Rand’s pale, muscled back.

It was not the first time Rand had submitted himself to another man’s pleasure. Perhaps it should have horrified him. Certainly Masema was no friend of his, and could hardly be considered a lover. Nor was there much of affection in his harsh thrusts and clawing fingers. But he was not horrified. The Dragon banner before him occupied his thoughts much as Masema’s cock occupied his ass, and for a disturbing moment it seemed almost familiar. As if he had seen that strange creature long before, somewhere else, somewhere far away. He shook his head in denial.

Masema mistook him. “Yes actually. You stay there and take it, my Aiel Lord,” he growled, and increased his pace.

There was something else familiar, too, but Rand denied that just as fiercely as he did the banner. Masema’s cock might be the same size as Tam’s but they were not the same. Tam had used his body for his pleasure since he was little, that was true, but it was not the same as what Masema was doing. Tam had loved him, Masema only wanted an outlet for his anger. Tam had never insulted him while he took him, the way Masema had, Tam had never pulled his hair, the way Masema now was. Tam had never hated him for being Aiel, the way ...  _ No. I’m not an Aiel. No matter how many people say otherwise _ . He tossed his head in denial, which brought a pleased grunt from Masema, who tightened his grip in Rand’s hair and fucked him even faster.

Abruptly, the man stopped his rapid thrusting and shoved himself all the way into Rand’s bowels. A hissed out breath and a groan of what might almost have been pain was his only warning before something hot and wet began spurting inside him.

Rand’s cheeks coloured again.  _ You have your punishment, al’Thor. Do you feel absolved now? Are you cleansed of man’s sin? _ The mocking voice was his own, and the answer plain. The One Power was still there, still almost within his reach, still hopelessly tainted by the Shadow. He knelt before the Dragon banner, flushed and used and feeling every bit as hopeless as he had before.

Throughout it all, he had not stiffened. Not that Masema was like to care about that.

The Shienaran behind him was breathing deeply. He pulled himself out of Rand with a grunt and fell back to his knees. Rand remained on his hands and knees for a time, his soiled ass on display, but eventually he heaved himself over with a morose sigh and sat in the dirt, his breeches still around his knees.

Masema took his soft, dark cock in hand and stuffed it back into his breechclout before doing up his laces. He kept glancing at Rand, and then pulling his eyes away again. He had a hard face, made for scowls, not apologies, but Rand thought he almost looked guilty. He had no words of his own to say. He could have stopped it if he wanted, after all. Probably. Already, regret was seeping into his thoughts. He should have stopped it.  _ This was foolish. Madness. What use did I imagine this would serve? _

Morose youth and angry man, they stared at each other in silence for a long minute, neither quite understanding the other.

Masema climbed to his feet and stood over Rand, stiff-backed. “You’re a good fuck,” he said awkwardly.

“Thanks,” Rand sighed, though he didn’t feel particularly grateful. “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”

Masema nodded curtly. “Right.” He turned and stalked off back the way he had come, leaving Rand alone with his dark thoughts.  _ Well, I hope there are no further consequences from this, besides feeling disgusted with myself _ .

When he returned to the camp sometime later, washed and dressed and solemn-faced, he carried the banner wrapped in canvas once more, tied with knots less neat than Moiraine’s had been.

The light had begun to fail and the shadow of the rim covered half the hollow. The soldiers were settling in, all with their horses by their sides, lances propped to hand. He could not see Masema among their number, and did not look very hard. Anna and Perrin were still on watch, up in their chosen trees. Rand gave them a sad look, then fetched Red, standing where he had been left with his reins dangling, and went to the other side of the hollow, where Hurin had joined Loial. The Ogier had given over reading and was examining the half-buried stone on which he had been sitting, tracing something on the stone with the long stem of his pipe.

Hurin stood and gave Rand something just short of a bow. “Hope you don’t mind me making my bed here, Lord—uh—Rand. I was just listening to the Builder here.”

“There you are, Rand,” Loial said. “You know, I think this stone was worked once. See, it’s weathered, but it looks as if it was a column of some kind. And there are markings, also. I can’t quite make them out, but they look familiar, somehow.”

“Maybe you’ll be able to see them better in the morning,” Rand said. He pulled the saddlebags from Red. “I’ll be glad of your company, Hurin.”  _ I’m glad of anybody’s company who isn’t afraid of me. No matter how little they care. How much longer can I have it, though? _

He shifted everything into one side of the saddlebags—spare shirts and breeches and woollen stockings, sewing kit, tinder box, tin plate and cup, a greenwood box with knife and fork and spoon, a packet of dried meat and flatbread for emergency rations, and all the other traveller’s necessaries— then stuffed the canvas-wrapped banner into the empty pocket. It bulged, the straps barely reaching the buckles, but then, the other side bulged now, too. It would do.

Loial and Hurin seemed to sense his mood, leaving him in silence while he stripped saddle and bridle from Red, rubbed the big bay down with tufts of grass torn from the ground, then resaddled him. Rand refused their offer of food; he did not think he could have stomached the best meal he had ever seen just then. All three of them made their beds there beside the stone, a simple matter of a blanket folded for a pillow and cloak to cover.

The camp was silent now, but Rand lay awake past the fall of full dark. His mind darted back and forth. The banner.  _ What is she trying to make me do? _ The village.  _ What could kill a Fade like that? _ Worst of all, the house in the village.  _ Did it really happen? Am I going mad already? Do I run, or do I stay? Or should I just kill myself and get it over with? _

An exhausted sleep finally came, and with sleep, unbidden, the void surrounded him, flickering with an uneasy glow that disturbed his dreams.

* * *

Padan Fain stared northward out into the night, past the only fire in his camp, smiling a fixed smile that never touched his eyes. He still thought of himself as Padan Fain—Padan Fain was the core of him—but he had been changed, and he knew it. He knew many things, now, more than any of his old masters could suspect. He had been a Darkfriend long years before Ba’alzamon summoned him and set him on the track of the three young men from Emond’s Field, distilling what he knew of them, distilling him, and feeding the essence back so that he could feel them, smell where they had been, follow wherever they ran. Especially the one. A part of him still cringed, remembering what Ba’alzamon had done to him, but it was a small part, hidden, suppressed. He was changed. Following the three had led him into Shadar Logoth. He had not wanted to go, but he had had to obey. Then. And in Shadar Logoth ...

Fain drew a deep breath and fingered the dagger at his belt, wishing it was another dagger, the ruby-hilted one he had seen the Cauthon boy carrying. That had come from Shadar Logoth, too, and it felt like a part of him. He was not whole within himself while the boy kept his dagger. But that would have to wait.

He cast a glance to either side of his fire. The twelve Darkfriends who were left, their once-fine clothes now rumpled and dirty, huddled in the darkness to one side, staring not at the fire, but at him. On the other squatted his Trollocs, twenty in number, the all-too-human eyes in those animal-twisted men’s faces following his every move like mice watching a cat.

It had been a struggle at first, waking each morning to find himself not completely whole, to find the Myrddraal back in command, raging and demanding they go north, to the Blight, to Shayol Ghul. But bit by bit those mornings of weakness grew shorter, until ... He remembered the feel of the hammer in his hand, driving the spikes in, and he smiled; this time it did touch his eyes, with the joy of sweet memory.

Weeping from the dark caught his ear, and his smile faded.  _ I should never have let the Trollocs take so many _ . An entire village to slow them down. If those few houses at the ferry had not been deserted, perhaps ... But Trollocs were greedy by nature, and in the euphoria of watching the Myrddraal die, he had not paid attention as he should.

He glanced at the Trollocs. Any one of them was nearly twice as tall as he, strong enough to break him to flinders with one hand, yet they edged back, still crouching. “Kill them. All. You may feed, but then make a pile of everything that remains—for our friends to find. Put the heads on top. Neatly, now.” He laughed, and cut it off short. “Go!”

The Trollocs scrambled away, drawing scythe-like swords and raising spiked axes. In moments shrieks and bellows rose from where the villagers were bound. Pleas for mercy and children’s screams were cut off by solid thuds and unpleasant squishing noises, like melons being broken.

Fain turned his back on the cacophony to look at his Darkfriends. They were his, too, body and soul. Such souls as they had left. Every one of them was mired as deeply as he had been, before he found his way out. Every one with nowhere to go except to follow him. Their eyes clung to fearful, pleading. “You think they will grow hungry again before we find another village or a farm? They may. You think I will be letting them have some more of you? Well, perhaps one or two. There aren’t any more horses to spare.”

“The others were only commoners,” one woman managed in an unsteady voice. Dirt streaked her face above a finely cut dress that marked her as a merchant, and wealthy. Smears stained the good grey cloth, and a long tear marred her skirt. “They were peasants. We have served—I have served—” Fain cut her off, his easy tone making his words all the harder. “What are you, to me? Less than peasants. Herd cattle for the Trollocs, perhaps? If you want to live, cattle, you must be useful.”

The woman’s face broke. She sobbed, and suddenly all the rest were babbling, telling him how useful they were, men and women who had had influence and position before they were called to fulfil their oaths at Fal Dara. They spilled out the names of important, powerful people whom they knew in the Borderlands, in Cairhien, and other lands. They babbled of the knowledge they alone had of this land or that, of political situations, alliances, intrigues, all the things they could tell him if he let them serve him. The noise of them blended with the sounds of the Trollocs’ slaughter and fit right in.

Fain ignored all of it—he had no fear of turning his back on them, not since they had seen the Fade dealt with—and went to his prize. Kneeling, he ran his hands over the ornate, golden chest, feeling the power locked inside. He had to have a Trolloc carry it—he did not trust the humans enough to load it on a horse and packsaddle; some dreams of power might be strong enough to overcome even fear of him, but Trollocs never dreamed of anything except killing—and he had not yet puzzled out how to open it. But that would come. Everything would come. Everything.

The woman who had given it to him had known what was inside. Known and not cared. She had claimed to be one of the Chosen and as impossible as it might have once seemed, Fain had believed her. Who else could have so much power that they could throw away a prize such as the Horn of Valere and wear so mocking a smile as they did it? She was using him, of course, just like Ba’alzamon used him. Fain had been careful to avoid meeting her eye. But that, too, would change.

He settled himself down beside the chest. Lying there in his blankets, he stared northward. He could not feel al’Thor, now; the distance between them was too great. Or perhaps al’Thor was doing his vanishing trick. Sometimes, in the keep, the boy had suddenly vanished from Fain’s senses. He did not know how, but always al’Thor came back, just as suddenly as he had gone. He would come back this time, too.

“This time you come to me, Rand al’Thor. Before, I followed you like a dog driven on the trail but now you follow me.” His laughter was a cackle that even he knew was mad, but he did not care. Madness was a part of him, too. “Come to me, al’Thor. The dance is not even begun yet. We’ll dance on Toman Head, and I’ll be free of you. I’ll see you dead at last.”


	12. Kinslayer

CHAPTER 19: Kinslayer

But by nightfall, there was still no sign of the Darkfriends, and Hurin said the trail was fainter still. The sniffer kept muttering to himself about “remembering”.

There had been no sign. Really no sign. Rand was not as good a tracker as Uno, but any boy in the Theren was expected to track well enough to find a lost sheep, or a rabbit for dinner. He had seen nothing. It was as if no living thing had ever disturbed the land before they came. There should have been something if the Darkfriends were ahead of them. But Hurin kept following the trail he said he smelled.

As the sun touched the horizon they made camp in a stand of trees untouched by the burn, eating from their saddlebags. Flatbread and dried meat washed down with flat-tasting water; hardly a filling meal, tough and far from tasty. Rand thought they might have enough for a week. After that ... Hurin ate slowly, determinedly, but Loial gulped his down with a grimace and settled back with his pipe, the big quarterstaff close at hand. Rand kept their fire small and well hidden in the trees. Fain and his Darkfriends and Trollocs might be close enough to see a fire, for all of Hurin’s worries about the oddness of their trail.

It seemed odd to him that he had begun to think of them as Fain’s Darkfriends, Fain’s Trollocs. Fain was just a madman.  _ Then why did they rescue him? _ Fain had been part of the Dark One’s scheme to find him. Perhaps it had something to do with that.  _ Then why is he running instead of chasing me? And what killed that Fade? What happened in that room full of flies? And those eyes watching me in Fal Dara. And that wind, catching me like a beetle in pine sap. _

_ It’s never over, al’Thor _ .

The voice was like a thin breeze whispering in the back of his head, a thin, icy murmur working its way into the crevices of his mind. He almost sought the void to escape it, but remembering what waited for him there, he pushed down the desire.

In the half dark of twilight, he worked the forms with his sword, the way Lan had taught, though without the void. Parting the Silk. Hummingbird Kisses the Honeyrose. Heron Wading in the Rushes for balance. Losing himself in the swift, sure movements, forgetting for a time where he was, he worked until sweat covered him. Yet when he was done, it all came back; nothing was changed. The weather was not cold, but he shivered and pulled his cloak around him as he hunched by the fire. The others caught his mood, and they finished eating quickly and in silence. No-one complained when he kicked dirt over the last fitful flames.

Rand took the first watch himself, walking the edges of the copse with his bow, sometimes easing his sword in its scabbard. The chill moon was almost full, standing high in the blackness, and the night was as silent as the day had been, as empty. Empty was the right word. The land was as empty as a dusty milk crock. It was hard to believe there was anyone in the whole world, in this world, except for the three of them, hard to believe even the Darkfriends were there, somewhere ahead.

To keep himself company, he unwrapped Thom Merrilin’s cloak, exposing the harp and flute in their hard leather cases atop the many-coloured patches. He took the gold-and-silver flute from its case, remembering the gleeman teaching him as he fingered it, and played a few notes of “The Wind That Shakes the Willow”, softly so as not to wake the others. Even soft, the sad sound was too loud in that place, too real. With a sigh he replaced the flute and did up the bundle again.

He held the watch long into the night, letting the others sleep. But eventually exhaustion forced him to shake Loial from his slumber to take his place. No sooner had his head hit the bundled cloak that served as his pillow than a fog rose around them. Close to the ground it lay, thick, making Hurin and Loial indistinct shapes seeming to hump out of clouds. Thinner higher up, it still shrouded the land around them, hiding everything except the nearest trees. The moon seemed viewed through watered silk. Anything at all could come right up to them unseen. He sat up and touched his sword.

“Swords do no good against me, Lews Therin. You should know that.”

The fog swirled around Rand’s feet as he spun, the sword coming into his hands, heron-mark blade upright before him. The void leaped up inside him; for the first time, he barely noticed the tainted light of  _ saidin _ .

A shadowy figure drew nearer through the mist, walking with a tall staff. Behind it, as if the shadow’s shadow were vast, the fog darkened till it was blacker than night. Rand’s skin crawled. Closer the figure came, until it resolved into the shape of a man, clothed and gloved in black, and the shadow came with it. His staff was black, too, as if the wood had been charred, yet smooth and shining like water by moonlight. His face was all-too familiar, an aristocratically handsome man of middle years with two orbs of purest darkness where his eyes should have been.

“Ba’alzamon,” he breathed. “This is a dream. It has to be. I fell asleep, and—”

Ba’alzamon laughed like the roar of an open furnace. “You always try to deny what is, Lews Therin. If I stretch out my hand, I can touch you, Kinslayer. I can always touch you. Always and everywhere.”

“I am not the Dragon! My name is Rand al’—!” Rand clamped his teeth shut to stop himself.

“Oh, I know the name you use now, Lews Therin. I know every name you have used, through Age after Age, long before you were even the Kinslayer.” Ba’alzamon’s voice began to rise in intensity. “I know you, know your blood and your line back to the first spark of life that ever was, back to the First Moment. You can never hide from me. Never! We are tied together as surely as two sides of the same coin. Ordinary men may hide in the sweep of the Pattern, but  _ ta’veren _ stand out like beacon fires on a hill, and you, you stand out as if ten thousand shining arrows stood in the sky to point you out! You are mine, and ever in reach of my hand!”

“Father of Lies!” Rand managed. Despite the void, his tongue wanted to cleave to the roof of his mouth.  _ Light, please let it be a dream _ . The thought skittered outside the emptiness.  _ Even one of those dreams that isn’t a dream. He can’t really be standing in front of me _ . “You’re well named! If you could just take me, why haven’t you? Because you cannot. I walk in the Light, and you cannot touch me!”

Ba’alzamon leaned on his staff and looked at Rand a moment. “An interesting choice of words. But I have already told you, I am not Shai’tan.”

With the utterance of that name, the air seemed to thicken. The darkness behind Ba’alzamon swelled and grew, threatening to swallow everything. Rand felt it engulfing him, colder than ice and hotter than coals both at the same time, blacker than death, sucking him into the depths of it, overwhelming the world.

He gripped his sword hilt till his knuckles hurt. “I deny you, and I deny your power. I walk in the Light. The Light preserves us, and we shelter in the palm of the Creator’s hand.” He blinked. Ba’alzamon—or Ishamael as he was also called—still stood there, and the great darkness still hung behind him, but it was as if all the rest had been illusion.

Ignoring Rand’s sword, the dark man moved to stand over Loial and Hurin, peering down at them. The vast shadow moved with him. He did not disturb the fog, Rand saw—he moved, the staff swung with his steps, but the grey mist did not swirl and eddy around his feet as it did around Rand’s. That gave him heart. Perhaps Ba’alzamon really was not there. Perhaps it was just a dream.

“You find odd followers,” Ba’alzamon mused. “You always did. These two. The girl who tries to watch over you. A poor guardian and weak, Kinslayer. If she had a lifetime to grow, she would never grow strong enough for you to hide behind.”

_ Girl? Who? Moiraine is surely not a girl. Does he mean Nynaeve? _ The thought that Ba’alzamon even knew Nynaeve existed was horrifying.  _ I won’t let him hurt her, or anyone else _ . “I don’t know what girl you are talking about, Father of Lies.”

“Do I lie, Lews Therin? You know what you are, who you are. I have told you. And so have those women of Tar Valon.” Rand shifted, and Ba’alzamon gave a laugh, like a small thunderclap. “They think themselves safe in their White Tower, but my followers number even some of their own. The Aes Sedai called Moiraine told you who you are, did she not? Did she lie? Or is she one of mine? The White Tower means to use you like a hound on a leash. Do I lie about that? Do I lie when I say you seek the Horn of Valere?” He laughed again; calm of the void or no, it was all Rand could do not to cover his ears. “Sometimes old enemies fight so long that they become allies and never realize it. They think they strike at you, but they have become so closely linked it is as if you guided the blow yourself.”

“You don’t guide me,” Rand said. “I deny you.”

“I have a thousand strings tied to you, Kinslayer, each one finer than silk and stronger than steel. Time has tied a thousand cords between us. The battle we two have fought—do you remember any part of that? Do you have any glimmering that we have fought before, battles without number back to the beginning of Time? I know much that you do not! That battle will soon end. The Last Battle is coming. The last, Lews Therin. I will make sure of it this time. This time when you die, you will be destroyed utterly. This time the Wheel will be broken whatever you do, and the world remade to a new mould.”

Ba’alzamon’s eyes were like bottomless pits. Looking at them, Rand suddenly felt as though he had fallen from a cliff. “Let me show you.”

He tumbled down into darkness and was lost.

He had no eyes to see but that did not stop them. He could feel their greedy hands fumbling at his flesh, pinching, pulling, trying to take little pieces of him for themselves. He existed to serve them, to protect them. He knew that somehow. And just as surely he knew that they would use him until there was nothing left to use, then discard him in favour of the next protector. Except, the next one would be him as well. Again and again and again. He existed only to be used. One of his tormentors proved stronger than the others. He pushed them aside and took Rand’s face between his hands. They were cruel hands, but their long fingers stroked Rand’s cheeks lovingly.

“Serve the many and they will tear you apart. But serve me alone and I will give you the freedom you have long desired. The freedom you don’t even know you want,” purred Ba’alzamon.

Rand’s jaw hung lax. He wanted to close it but somehow he could not. A rod slipped over his lips and into his mouth. It was a warm thing, stiff yet soft and fleshy. A man’s cock.

“Suckle upon me, Lews Therin,” Ba’alzamon whispered. “Accept my truth and it will all be over. We can rest at last.”

Rand denied him. Or tried to, but with his tongue held down by the shaft of meat resting upon it he could manage no more than a mumbled groan. Ba’alzamon matched it with one of his own as Rand’s lips perforce worked their magic upon him.

_ This is just a dream _ , Rand told himself.  _ It isn’t happening. I won’t believe it! _

Abruptly he felt his surroundings change. Between one heartbeat and the next his vision returned and he found himself back in the Theren. The familiar furnishings of his small house in the Westwood were all around him. Outside the window it was a pleasant spring day. Home at last. But no sooner had he felt the surge of relief than a voice whispered from behind, “You cannot escape from me so easily, Dragon. It is not over between us. It will not be over until the end of time.”

Rand spun to face the voice. Ba’alzamon stood in the doorway, inside Rand’s house with the door closed snugly behind him. The intrusion infuriated him. “Get out! You are not welcome here,” he growled. “Leave me alone. I will not serve you. I will not fight for the Shadow.”

“Then don’t. Fight for yourself. What Shai’tan wants is not truly the issue. Whether what he wants will also give us our desires is. And it will.” He cast a contemptuous glance around them. “Is this where you flee for comfort, Lews Therin. It is a rustic and crude place, even by the standards of this broken Age. Why here? What could it and its benighted denizens possibly have done for you? Did the farmer who raised you have some supposedly wise insights into the nature of humanity that he liked to share with you? I promise, such earthy wisdoms never survive the scrutiny of an evolved mind.”

“What would an insane monster like you know of wisdom?” scoffed Rand.

Ba’alzamon chuckled. “Madness and wisdom are but two sides of the same coin. If you would seek to understand what the common man does not, you must allow your thoughts to roam in places that others would not dare venture.”

Tam had taught him much Rand recalled. He had taught him how to focus his mind, to become one with the flame and the void. Desperately he sought that stillness, hoping to banish Ba’alzamon from his dream.

The farmhouse shimmered around him. Nothing changed, and yet everything did. The mad Forsaken with the many names was gone and in his place stood the familiar, stolid countenance of Tam al’Thor, bluff and greying but still strong.

Rand’s father stretched his arms above his head with a loud groan. They had spent almost the entire day working at that tree stump. Tam was even more tired and frustrated than Rand was. He wasn’t getting any younger after all. The day had dragged on so long that now, thinking back on it, it seemed to Rand that it had been many years since they had finally cleared the field, rather than mere hours. But that was a foolish thought and he quickly dismissed it.

Rand went upstairs to his room to change out of his soiled clothes. He was all the way down to his drawers when he heard the floorboards creak as someone approached his door.

Tam wore that chagrined, almost ashamed smile he sometimes did when he was feeling the urge. Rand stared up at him from his seat on the bed.

“It’s been a long day,” Tam sighed. “Be a good lad and help me relax would you?”

Rand’s cheeks coloured of their own accord, though it was far from the first time he had been asked to help Tam relax. “Yes sir,” he said dutifully. Without preamble he pulled down his underwear and added them to the pile of dirty clothes. Then he turned around, lay down on his belly and spread his long legs. With his pale young bottom exposed, Rand hugged his pillow and waited for his father to do with him as he pleased.

The sound of a belt being unbuckled and a rustle of cloth heralded Tam’s arrival. He took hold of Rand’s hips and guided his thick cock into the familiar sheathe of his son’s butt, sighing loudly as he entered. It still hurt a little as Tam pushed inside but Rand relaxed himself and did not complain. Once his cock was all the way in Tam began riding him in earnest, grunting with each hard thrust.

Tam’s weight pressed Rand down onto the soft mattress. Rand’s butt felt almost numb from the fierce fucking he was getting. He closed his eyes and took it bravely, his breath coming faster and faster. Tam ran his fingers through Rand’s hair and turned his head to the side, the better to look on his son’s face as he made love to him.

“The earthiest of wisdoms then,” Tam chuckled, while his cock still pumped in and out of Rand. “Rustic is too kind a term. Even animals know the urge to procreate ... Rand. Is it to this that you are a slave? Sex is a pleasant distraction, but we must concern ourselves with higher things you and I.”

Rand’s eyes snapped open and he looked back over his shoulder. Tam was gone and in his place lay Ba’alzamon. On Rand. In Rand. The Forsaken ran his tongue across Rand’s shoulder, bringing his unblinking, pure black orbs horrifyingly close to Rand’s face. He stared right into Rand’s eyes as he pumped away at him.

“Get off me!” Rand shouted. He grasped at  _ saidin _ , willingly for once, and sought fire. He wanted Ba’alzamon to burn, he wanted everything to burn. And burn it did.

Rand woke from the nightmare with a wordless yell. The moon still shone in the clear night and he fell back to his bed with a long sigh.  _ Just a dream _ . The memory of it faded quickly, though the night’s chill felt a pleasant relief on his skin after the searing heat he vaguely recalled.

Even in the middle of the night the city did not truly sleep. The sounds the moonlight carried into his sanctuary gave promise of the morrow’s work. There would be more petitions brought before his throne, more fools begging him to solve problems they should have been able to solve themselves, more smug diplomats whose insincere promises he would have to meet with the same. It never changed. And it never ended.

Elan stirred in the bed beside him. The moonlight kissed his milky white skin and somehow the mere glimpse of him was enough to make Rand instantly hard. He pushed the silk sheets aside and rose up onto his knees with his cock jutting out before him. He didn’t bother waking the boy, just turned him onto his back and spread his slender legs, exposing his small, hairless parts and tight little bottom. Rand positioned his son and began forcing his large cock into the boy’s too-small hole. Elan didn’t protest. Why would he? He had seen so much worse.

A frantic voice at the back of his head mumbled nonsense.  _ This isn’t right. This isn’t me! _ He ignored it and began fucking Elan hard.

“Do you prefer having a catamite to being one?” Elan whispered as he lay pliant beneath him. “If you think that changes anything of import then you lack vision.” Darkness suited him. The moonlight blended with his white skin and black hair. Even his eyes, when at last he opened them, belonged to the darkness. The pretty little boy smiled a sharp smile as Rand fucked him. He took hold of Rand’s hands and though Rand was by far the stronger of them he felt powerless to stop himself from moving.

Elan brought Rand’s hands to his throat and wrapped them around his soft little neck. “These powers are callow and transient,” he whispered as Rand’s fingers began to tighten of their own accord. “A million empires have risen and fallen in the Wheel’s long turning. How many can you name? Can you be so foolish as to imagine that what exists now, or might be built in the years to come, will fare any better?”

Rand kept fucking Elan while the boy’s moonlit face turned from white to black. With his last breath Elan whispered, “Free me.”

Fluid shot forth from Rand’s body, but not of the sort his tormentor might expect.

Abruptly the bedroom was gone and there was darkness all around him once more. He knelt naked in a pool of rancid slime. His own vomit lay warm upon his chest and the stench of carrion was all around him. As he shifted his weight his leg bumped against what felt like a bone. There were pieces of flesh still attached to it and some remained stuck to Rand’s skin when he pulled away. A flickering, sourceless light showed him glimpses of what lay around him. Corpses. Human corpses in various stages of rot. Some of them looked horribly familiar.

Rand shook his head angrily. “None of this is real!” he shouted. “You are doing this, Ba’alzamon, I know it! This is all just another dream.”

“It is,” the Forsaken said. Between one flicker of light and the next he was there beside him. Naked as Rand was naked, and standing in the pool of corpses. “It is all a dream. Nothing matters. In this world or in any other. You must see that now. You must! We have lain in this grave so many times, you and I. But I know the path that leads out. Together we can walk that path, Lews Therin, as no-one else in all Creation can. Join me, and I will show you the way.”

Alone in that cold, vile place, Rand set his jaw and faced the Forsaken squarely, armed with nothing but his innate stubbornness. “I will not serve the Shadow. Ever.”

Ba’alzamon lashed a hand through the rancid water, splashing them both in foulness. “What had serving the Light ever gotten you save an eternity of torment, fool! I offer you freedom and you are too ignorant to reach for it!”

Abruptly the gravepit was gone and they were back in the stand of trees where Rand and the others had made camp. Both men were blessedly clothed again and Rand’s sword was at his side. He snatched it from its sheathe and held it up between them. It offered little protection he knew, but it was all he had.

Ba’alzamon’s anger was palpable. “Bah! You do not listen. But you will. You will learn. I know the paths to great power, Lews Therin. Untrained it will burn you like a moth flying into a furnace.”

“I will not touch it!” Rand felt the void around him, felt  _ saidin _ . “I won’t.”

“You cannot stop yourself.”

“Leave—me—ALONE!”

“Power.” Ba’alzamon’s voice became soft, insinuating. “You can have power again, Lews Therin. You are linked to it now, this moment. I know it. I can see it. Feel it, Lews Therin. Feel the glow inside you. Feel the power that could be yours. All you must do is reach out for it. But the Shadow is there between you and it. Madness and death. I can shield you from that, too. You need not die, Lews Therin, need not rot and go mad. Not ever again.”

“No,” Rand said, but the voice went on, burrowing into him.

“I can teach you to control that power so that it does not destroy you. No-one else lives who can teach you that. Do you care for these wretched mortals? Knowing you the answer will be yes. I can save them from you. There need never be another Ilyena Sunhair. The Great Lord of the Dark can shelter you from the madness. The power can be yours and you can live forever. Forever! All you must do in return is serve. Only serve. Simple words—I am yours, Great Lord—and power will be yours. Power beyond anything those women of Tar Valon dream of, and life eternal, if you will only offer yourself up and serve.”

Rand licked his lips. Not to go mad. Not to die. “Never! I walk in the Light,” he grated hoarsely, “and you can never touch me!”

The Forsaken glared balefully at him. “Touch you, Lews Therin? Have I not already tasted your depths? Touch you? I can consume you! Taste the flame and know that truth! The first of many.”

Suddenly Rand’s sword glowed as if just drawn from the forge. He cried out as the hilt burned his hands, screamed and dropped the sword. And the fog caught fire, fire that leaped, fire that burned everything.

Yelling, Rand beat at his clothes as they smoked and charred and fell in ashes, beat with hands that blackened and shrivelled as naked flesh cracked and peeled away in the flames. He screamed. Pain beat at the void inside him, and he tried to crawl deeper into the emptiness. The glow was there, the tainted light just out of sight. Half mad, no longer caring what it was, he reached for  _ saidin _ , tried to wrap it around him, tried to hide in it from the burning and the pain.

As suddenly as the fire began, it was gone. Rand’s eyes snapped open and he raised his head from his blanket to stare around the clearing. Loial’s hulking figure sat on a rocking outcropping nearby, keeping watch.  _ I imagined it all _ . Frantically, he looked around. Hurin shifted in his sleep. Ba’alzamon was gone.  _ It was just a nightmare _ .

Before relief had a chance to grow, pain stabbed his right hand, and he turned it up to look. There across the palm was branded a heron. The heron from the hilt of his sword, angry and red, as neatly done as though drawn with an artist’s skill.

Fumbling a kerchief from his pocket, he wrapped it around his hand. It was not the first time he had been wounded while having a nightmare. Dreams were deadly now. His hand throbbed. The void would help with that—he was aware of pain in the void, but he did not feel it—but he put the thought out of his head. Twice now, unknowing—and once on purpose; he could not forget that—he had tried to channel the One Power while he was in the void. It was what Ba’alzamon, what Moiraine and the Amyrlin Seat wanted him to do. He would not.


	13. Pieces of the Pattern

CHAPTER 33: Pieces of the Pattern

Elayne’s fair skin reddened from the exertion, and sweat darkened her hair. Min stuffed her hands in her pockets and shifted her feet uncomfortably. Watching her friend work while she stood idle made her feel guilty, but the last time she had pitched in to help Laras had come at her with a spoon that was nearly long enough to be a shortsword. She liked the Mistress of the Kitchens—she laughed loud and often—but when it came to the Novices here in the Tower she could be nearly as strict as Sheriam. Or three Sheriams; Laras was a ... big woman. And no-one Min wanted to get on the wrong side of.

“Just a dozen more turns, Elayne, and you’ll be the hero of a story,” Min said with an encouraging grin. “Build that character!”

Elayne was all poise. Usually. But as she turned the handle on the spit, sweat dripping from her chin to further dampen the once-white dress that now clung to her body, she shot a fierce glare at the spit dog lounging nearby.

The brindled hound wagged his tail when she looked his way, seemingly convinced he had made a new friend. The wicker wheel he would normally have been running on lay idle at his side. The Aes Sedai thought work built character, so Novices and Accepted alike were set chores all throughout the Tower. Even if it meant displacing those whose job it would normally be.

“I doubt Birgitte Silverbow ever had to do a hound’s work for it,” Elayne said, voice sharp with outrage. And a touch breathless. She was remarkably friendly and tolerant for someone raised in a palace, dutiful and not at all snobbish; but physical labour had definitely not been something required of the Daughter-Heir.

“If she did they neglected to make a song of it for some strange reason. How would that go?” She put on her best gleeman voice. “ ‘Run back to your puppies, faithful mutt! I will track these villains’, said the legendary archer as she bent low to sniff the trail, her hips wagging heroically.”

She won a laugh from Elayne, and felt a little less useless.  _ I can at least cheer her up. It’s not much, but it’s something _ .

The smell of good beef roasting on the roaring fire filled the room and made Min’s stomach grumble.

“I’m hungry, too,” Elayne said politely.

“That’s hard to miss,” someone muttered.

Min looked askance at the Domani Accepted who bustled by, her mop scrubbing along a floor that already gleamed. Daniele was never shy of speaking her mind, and like most of the Accepted she didn’t seem to know what to make of Min. She wasn’t an initiate of the Tower, but she was of an age with those who were. She wandered the halls with seemingly no work to do or reason for being there. But she had been personally escorted to the city by an Aes Sedai. Other than Elayne, none of the young women seemed interested in making her feel welcome, though Daniele at least limited herself to the occasional barbed comment.

“Anyway,” Min said. “Do you want to meet up in the library again after your class? Assuming you aren’t so tired you don’t just crawl straight into bed.”

Elayne kept turning the spit, breathing heavily now. “I fear I might do just that. But I will try to meet you there, and apologise in advance if I do not.”

Min waved her hand dismissively. “No need for apologies. Any time you feel up for it is fine with me.”

Daniele grunted softly. Min tried to ignore her.

Elayne was flagging visibly. Min turned slowly, and took a sneaky peek at Laras. The cook’s wide frame was blocking several stoves and her back was to Min and Elayne.  _ Now’s my chance _ .

With a cheeky grin, she waved Elayne away from the handle and took hold of it. Min had worked as a tavern maid, a dyer, a weaver, a stablegirl and a cook’s helper; she might not be allowed to do the job for Elayne but she could at least do it long enough for her to rest her arms.

“Thank you,” Elayne whispered with a small smile. She let her arms swing at her sides, opening and closing her hands to try and limber them. “It is surprisingly hard on one’s arms for such a simple task.”

Min nodded. This close to the fire she could already feel sweat starting to prick her forehead. “It is. But you get used to it after a while. Your arms will be sore for days after, then the next time they’ll be sore for hours, then minutes, then not at all.”

“I will persist,” Elayne said solemnly, “and grow stronger.”

Min couldn’t help herself. “Of course, you’ll have shoulders about three times the size of the rest of your body combined. But since Aes Sedai don’t marry anyway, what’s the harm?”

Elayne cocked her head and stared at nothing for a moment, before giggling. “I can’t even picture it. I should look like a Trolloc with long hair.”

“You might even start a fashion trend among Trollocs. They’d be a lot less trouble if they spent more time competing to see who was the prettiest and less time raiding the Borderlands. Or the Theren. Maybe that’s what the Aes Sedai are planning with all this ‘character building’ they’re giving you.”

Elayne’s laughter tapered off. A small frown marred her brow. “I still can’t quite believe it. To think Trollocs could raid on Andoran soil without the Lion Throne knowing of it. Or responding. It is an outrage. And a shame to my House. If I ever see Rand al’Thor again I shall have words for him. This matter should have been brought to Mother’s attention when he was brought before her.”

Min turned the spit.  _ Careful, careful _ . That topic was one she had given a lot of thought on how best to broach. And come up with not a single plan that didn’t sound crazy, even to her. “I’m ... sure you’ll have a chance to bend his ear about that someday,” she said slowly.

Elayne was watching her carefully. The girl knew too much already. And Min had never been good at deceiving people. “Hmmm. I suspect Nynaeve holds me accountable for the neglect of her region. And properly so. As an Andoran citizen she has a perfect right to bring a grievance against the throne over this matter.”

Min had sought out Nynaeve a few times since she had arrived in the White Tower. She knew the woman was tied up in the same mad web that she and Elayne were. She’d seen proof of that in Baerlon. So she figured, since they were likely to see quite a bit of each other, they might as well find a way to get along. But Nynaeve had not proved an easy woman to get along with, even before she passed the Accepted test. A great accomplishment, to be coveted and worked towards, the girls around here often said, but Nynaeve seemed to have no joy of it, nor of the golden ring, a serpent eating its own tail, that she now wore to mark her level. The few times Min had seen her in the past week Nynaeve’s eyes had looked shadowed, as if she had seen things she wished with all her heart not to have seen. And she’d been even more snappish than usual.

_ Maybe she’ll mellow once that Mat fellow wakes up. She did say he’d been asleep for more than a week. That’s definitely not normal. No doubt she’s worried about him _ . But if he hadn’t woken up by now, how long might it take? She knew he would wake eventually, she’d had viewings of him that couldn’t have happened yet, and her viewings always came true.  _ Maybe I should tell Nynaeve about what I saw. Rand and the others might even have mentioned my ability to her already _ .

“I don’t think she blames you,” she told Elayne comfortingly. “She’s grouchy with almost everyone, from what I can tell. And besides, no-one from the Theren considers themselves Andoran citizens. Even in Baerlon your mother’s writ runs pretty thin, if you tried to tell anyone south of the Taren that they’re actually Andorans they’d probably think you were drunk.”

Elayne was far from comforted. “Well ... they are. In Baerlon and the Theren both.”

Min shrugged. “As you will. I don’t really care, myself. One flag flaps much like the next. I’m just saying she probably doesn’t blame you or Andor for the troubles down south.”

Elayne pondered that in silence for a time. She was so immersed in thought that she didn’t look up until a dark shadow fell upon them both. Its flickering, fire-cast bulk set the spit hound to whimpering softly.

Looking over Min’s shoulder, Elayne squeaked in a very unprincess-like way.

Min had no time to react. The steel weapon arced out and struck the back of her hand, right on the bone. She cursed and pulled her hand away from the spit handle. Her language won her another smack, this time right on the top of her head. She hopped away, trying to rub at both wounds at once.

Laras slapped the end of her spoon into one meaty hand. “I’ve warned you before about interfering with my girls, Min Farshaw,” she said angrily. She advanced like a great, billowing warship, and Min fled behind a table. She had the advantage of a slender body and sensible breeches; at least she could outrun the woman.

“I was only helping, Laras.” she moaned, rubbing her head furiously.

Around the kitchen, Novices, Accepted and the real cooks had stopped to watch. Only the cooks, Elayne and, surprisingly, Daniele looked sympathetic to Min’s plight.

“That’s no excuse. If the Sisters just wanted the work done fast and well, we wouldn’t be using Novices in the first place.”

Min smiled in mock sadness. “No character building for me then? Awww.”

A sniff that could have blown the  _ Spray _ upriver issued from Laras’ nostrils. “Enough of your jokes, girl. Off with you. And don’t let me catch you in here again. At least not when this Novice is at her chores.”

“Alright, I’m going. Just ... stand clear with that oar you call a spoon.” Min kept a wary eye on the cook as she sidled towards the exit. A chagrined-looking Elayne gave her a small wave before she left.

Much as Min regretted being exiled from Elayne’s company she had an appointment of her own to keep, and would have had to excuse herself soon anyway. Whatever the Accepted thought, she did not just wander the halls for her own amusement. The Amyrlin Seat insisted she report to her every second day and describe every viewing she had had, along with their meanings. She insisted on it with a firmness that made Laras or Sheriam seem pushovers. Only Elaida had ever made Min feel as wrung out as the Amyrlin did, and that one could probably break down walls with her face.

Min’s shirt clung to her from the heat of the kitchen, just as it had when she was finally released from Elaida’s interrogation, though it had been a nice, breezy day then.

She still didn’t know how Elaida had known that Moiraine had summoned her. Min had been sure that was a secret known only to her, Moiraine, Dynahir, Sheriam and the Amyrlin Seat. And all those questions about Rand. It had not been easy keeping a smooth face and a steady eye while telling an Aes Sedai to her face that she had never heard of him and knew nothing of him.  _ What does she want with him? Light, what does Moiraine want with him? What is he? Light, I don’t want to fall in love with a man I’ve only met once, and a farmboy at that _ .

The section of the Tower where the Amyrlin had her rooms was much more spacious than the Novice Quarters. The corridors there were wide enough for a wagon to pass down easily, and taller than they were wide. Colourful tapestries hung on the walls, of floral designs and forest scenes, of heroic deeds and intricate patterns, some so old they looked as if they might break if handled. The tiles she walked on were diamond-shaped and showed the colours of the seven Ajahs.

Very few men came into that part of the Tower, and Min saw only two: Warders walking side by side in conversation, one with his sword on his hip, the other with his on his back. One was short and slender, even slight, the other almost as wide as he was tall, yet both moved with a dangerous grace. Arinvar and Ogrin. They were bonded to Sheriam and Falion respectively. She was required to remember as many names as she could as part of her spying duties but there were so many people here that she found herself struggling to recall even half. The colour-shifting Warder cloaks made them queasy-making to watch for long, parts of them sometimes seeming to fade into the walls beyond. For once she was glad to focus her sight on the images and auras that floated around the men.

To her eyes alone Arinvar appeared to be surrounded by dark, faceless figures. He raged in their midst, sword in his hand. No meaning came to her, and Min refused to speculate. She had learned how dangerous that could be years ago.

A sickly green aura followed Ogrin, and from within it a multitude of sharp needles stabbed at his back. Min snorted softly to herself. Threatening as the image appeared, its meaning came to her instinctually, as the meanings sometimes did. Ogrin would have a head-splitting hangover soon.

The antechamber of the Amyrlin Seat’s study was grand enough for any palace, though the chairs scattered about for those who might wait were plain. And empty. The only people around today were the Amyrlin’s tall, grey-haired Warder, Alric, standing sentry at her door, and the ever-present Keeper, Leane.

Leane looked somewhat like Daniele, but even taller and leaner and kept her hair cut short. She was used to Min’s visits by now, and waved her through with a perfunctory gesture.

The Amyrlin Seat sat behind the table, examining papers. She glanced at Min, briefly and only once. “Report. What have you seen since your last visit.” She pushed a note aside and pulled another one to her.

_ Nice to see you, too _ . She sighed and launched into it. “I saw Arinvar surrounded by dark, faceless figures. He was angry and wielding a sword.”

The Amyrlin snorted. “A Warder in a fight. Tell me something useful, girl.”

Min scowled to herself. She didn’t bother explaining that the images weren’t always literal; they’d already had that conversation.  _ I should tell her about Ogrin, she did insist on knowing everything I see, after all. Serve her right _ . But why start trouble over nothing. And besides, it wasn’t as if she wasn’t keeping some things back. She hadn’t told and wouldn’t tell the Amyrlin anything about Elayne, or Rand, or their friends and families. Most of them didn’t even know her, but they would one day, and she wasn’t about to betray their secrets.

“Useful. Right. Laras is sheltering a fishbowl between her breasts ...”

“Girl,” the Amyrlin interrupted, in a deadly soft voice. “If you play your games with me you will howl for it.”

Min, mouth open mid-recitation, let her teeth click together and sighed in exasperation. “I’m not playing. You asked to know what I see around people. I told you at the time that it doesn’t always make sense. Rarely, in fact, makes sense. Laras has a fishbowl down her dress. I have no idea why, or what it’s supposed to mean.”

The Amyrlin gave a grunt and waved for Min to continue.

“Alanna Mosvani is trying to put a saddle on an angry lion and it’s not going well for her. Her Warder, the Andoran one, Owein is it? Anyway, he’s squinting against the sun but it’s too bright for him to see. I don’t know what either viewing means. But I do know that Sarene Nemdahl is going to meet a man and have a tempestuous love affair with him.” Min grimaced. It felt wrong, revealing intimate details of a stranger’s life like that. Sarene was no friend of hers, she only knew the woman’s name because she’d been required to learn it, but still ...

The Amyrlin wasn’t troubled by such things. “Sarene? With a man?” She snorted. “I’ll believe that when silverpike learn to climb the docks.”

Min was bewildered. Sarene was easily one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen, why would it be a surprise that there would be a lover in her future? She would have thought the woman would have a dozen men competing for her attention. And more importantly ... “No. No, Mother, that is. Ah, the meaning came to me with that one, as it sometimes does. It will happen.”

The Amyrlin shook her head, a small smile on her lips. “Sarene ... Well, it’s a small matter. Go on. What else have you seen.”

“I saw Elaida a’Roihan standing at the bottom of a sheer cliff. She was trying to climb it by punching holes into the rock for her hands and feet, but far above her the landslide was starting and her every blow just made it come faster.” She didn’t know the meaning of that one, but privately she hoped it would be unpleasant. Elaida gave her the creeps, even if she was Elayne’s teacher.

“Poor Elaida,” said the Amyrlin dryly. “And?”

“Danelle Marris was wearing an Accepted’s dress and looked surprised, only she was really wearing brown wool and looked distracted.” That could not have been literal, since Danelle was an Aes Sedai already and, so far as she knew, they never got demoted. “Tarna Feir was standing next to an empty shell painted to look like her, its face frozen in horror. She was fighting it, but it was winning. I saw Merilille Caendevin hop down onto a boat, but the boat quickly sunk under her. She drowned, but not drowned, drowned, you know? It didn’t feel threatening, exactly, that viewing, is what I’m saying. I don’t know about the other two.”

Min hesitated, wondering how best to say it. Aes Sedai didn’t like to talk about the topic, as she’d quickly learned.  _ The good news first _ . “There were two others I was certain of. I saw the Flame of Tar Valon on Sareitha Tomares’ back, only it was brown instead of white. She will pass her test and become Aes Sedai soon. And she will choose the Brown Ajah.”

“Good,” said the Amyrlin with a firm nod, still intent on her reading. “And the other?”

“Sashalle Anderly will be Stilled. I don’t know when, or what for, just that it will happen.”

Cold blue eyes pierced Min. The Amyrlin stared at her, unblinking, for what felt like a long time. At last she spoke, in a voice that grew progressively harder. “Sashalle. A Red. Stilled. I see. You will say nothing of this. Or of the rest. Do you understand me, girl? Nothing.”

“I understand,” she said hastily. “I wouldn’t tell at all, usually. But here we are.”

She snorted, frowning once more at the papers on her desk. “Good work. You can go now. Report back at week’s end with your new viewings.”

Min sighed. “Yes, Mother.” She left the Amyrlin to brood and slipped out into the antechamber.

She decided to head to the library. If Elayne met up with her there after her classes, great, but if not then at least she would have something to read. The Aes Sedai hadn’t denied her the right to leave the Tower. Perhaps the city—she hadn’t tried to leave yet, so she couldn’t be certain—but not the Tower.

The Great Library of Tar Valon was not actually inside the White Tower, for all that most people called it the Tower Library. Instead it was housed in a nearby building, the second-tallest in the city. It was very beautiful, all carved from pale stone heavily streaked with blue. It was everything its reputation said it would be. The Library and Elayne were more than enough to make the trip to Tar Valon worth it to Min, even if she did have to play the spy for the Amyrlin.

It was a pleasantly sunny day outside, fitting for Amadaine, the first month of summer. She stretched her back as she strolled across the paving stones towards the library, letting the light breeze cool her down. It made her glad she had left her coat behind.

The Library was divided into twelve depositories, each given over to a specific kind of text, from maths to history to philosophy and so on. Min made her way to the tall wooden doors that led to the sixth depository, philosophy. Elayne had said she was taking history lessons today, but she hardly needed to study that topic at all; as the Daughter-Heir of Andor her knowledge of history already surpassed that of most people. And Min had developed a peculiar fascination with the books in the sixth. They were hard reading, but she liked to think of them as puzzles in written form. It was fun trying to figure out their meaning.

There was always a Brown sister on duty at the library doors and today it was stick-thin Phaedrine with her perpetual frown. That frown deepened when she saw Min approach but the Aes Sedai did not prevent her from entering. The Sisters were there to ensure no books left the library and took their jobs seriously, as Min had learned when she tried to take a few back to her room. She gave the woman a friendly smile and got a sniff in return.

Inside was a large chamber, a long oval with a flattened dome for a ceiling, filled with row on row of tall wooden shelves, each surrounded by a narrow walkway four paces above the seven-coloured floor tiles. Tall ladders stood alongside the shelves, on wheels so they could be moved easily, both on the floor and on the walkways, and mirrored brass stand-lamps with heavy bases. The stand-lamps all burned brightly, but were tightly shuttered to avoid the risk of fire.

The library was not empty. Several Aes Sedai, all but one of the Brown Ajah, and a handful of Accepted waited within, perusing the shelves or sitting at the long tables, reading quietly. And there was a man, a rare visitor to the Tower Library. Most men preferred to avoid anything to do with Aes Sedai. This fellow drew eyes, and not just because of his gender.

Galadedrid Mantear was Elayne’s half-brother, but did not stand very high in her regard. Min wasn’t entirely certain why. The fellow seemed polite enough, if a bit full of himself. But Elayne doubtless knew him a lot better than she did. Galad was also about as pretty as it was possible for a man to be, and even the vaunted reserve of the Aes Sedai had been known to crack at the sight of him. Min wasn’t moved by his looks, not really; she’d never much cared for pretty boys. Which was part of what made it so exasperating that the Pattern had decided to match her with Rand, who looked a bit like a more muscular, fairer-skinned, paler-eyed, red-haired version of Galad, come to think of it.

He was replacing a copy of Lothair Mantelar’s  _ The Way of the Light _ on the shelf when she approached. She’d read that one already, but hadn’t liked it. Far too preachy. As he turned towards her his lifeblood suddenly spurted from a hole in the left side of his neck. A silver sword with flapping wings attached to its blade was lodged in his flesh.

She stopped dead and her mouth fell open.

Galad smiled down on her kindly. He wasn’t hurt, of course, it was just a viewing. He wasn’t surprised by her reaction either, in fact he looked quite used to it.

Min felt her cheeks colour.  _ For the love of ...! The bloody man thinks I was ogling him. Burn these viewings! _

“Miss Farshaw,” he said with a polite tip of his head. “I trust you are well. Have you seen my lady sister lately? How is she?”

“They are working her like a dog,” Min growled. The viewing had not come with a meaning attached, but it was no less ominous for that.

Galad looked troubled. “Is that so?”

Min waved her hand dismissively, trying to recover her balance. “Ah, I’m probably exaggerating. She is doing the same work as the other Novices. Never mind me. Elayne’s fine, and she’ll be fine.”

“I hope so. If you will excuse me.” He strolled past her without waiting for a response, moving with a cat-like grace that would have suited a Warder.

Min turned her attention back to the books, but she seemed to be one of the few. A great many pairs of female eyes watched Galad leave. She smiled wryly. The Aes Sedai in the muted yellow dress, Yuna she thought the name was, stood by a shelf examining the titles of the books, head slightly lowered and her hands folded before her, the very picture of solemn dignity. But once Galad was far enough away that he couldn’t notice her, she turned her head slightly towards him and took a sneaky peek. Min’s smile became a grin.

She sought out _ The Limitations of Pure Reason _ , the book she had been reading when she last visited. While looking through the shelf she couldn’t help but notice  _ Pieces of the Pattern _ , the book Juilaine Madome had written about her viewings a few years ago. She’d never read it, and didn’t want to read it ... Mostly, she didn’t. She was, perhaps, a little curious. It was what had first drawn her to this section of the library. Just to see if it was there, mind. The book didn’t mention her by name, Juilaine had promised it wouldn’t, and Aes Sedai couldn’t lie. She wondered briefly why it was kept in the philosophy section as she resolutely marched past it and took  _ The Limitations of Pure Reason _ from its place. Resolutely refusing to look back, she went to find a comfortable, private spot to read.


	14. Destiny's Daughter

CHAPTER 34: Destiny’s Daughter

The hours drifted by as Min lost herself in the words, curled up on a cushioned window seat. She barely noticed the comings and goings of Aes Sedai, Accepted or Novices all. And she had no more viewings. That was one of the great things about books, she never knew what was going to happen in them.

“You looked quite engrossed. Should I leave you to it? I’m sure my studies could be well served in the first depository.”

Elayne’s voice snapped Min out of her trance. She looked up from the book with a welcoming smile. “History? There doesn’t seem to be much you don’t know about that already.”

“On the contrary. There is a great deal I have yet to learn,” said Elayne modestly.

Min swung her booted feet down from the bench and shifted the book into her lap, making a mental note of the page number for later. “I’m glad you came. You look a bit tired.”

Elayne plopped down onto the vacated space with a low sigh. “I admit I am trifle weary.”

“I’m sorry if I got you into trouble with Laras.”

“You didn’t. And I would not have minded if you had. I was glad you tried to help me. You are a good friend.” Elayne let her eyes drift shut as she leaned back against the window frame. She still managed to look elegant and beautiful, even work-weary and wearing a dirty dress. Min wished she could do that.

She bit her lip. Then decided to confess it. “I’m glad to hear that. I never really had a friend before. Back in Baerlon people tended to avoid me because of that thing we talked about. You’re the first real friend I’ve made.”

Elayne’s eyes popped open. “Really? But you’re so nice and friendly. Warm and fun. I imagined you would have a veritable horde of friends missing you.” She sounded flatteringly shocked.

Min shrugged, feeling suddenly shy. “Ha. I guess not everyone’s as tolerant as you are.”

The Daughter-Heir sniffed, chin raised as though passing judgement on some criminal. “Well they should be. These fools who mistreated you should consider themselves fortunate they are not in my reach this instant, or I should send the Queen’s Guards to have words with them.”

“You’re exaggerating?” Min asked, just a little bit doubtfully.

Elayne’s chin came back to its normal height. “Yes,” she said, with a chagrined smile. “It would actually be illegal to send the Guards to give a drubbing to some malcontent citizens. Even if they had been mean to my friend.”

Min laughed. “Well, I appreciate the thought at least.”

Elayne studied her, looking a little hesitant. “We seem to make a habit of sharing confessions, you and I,” she said at last. “As it happens, you are the only friend I have ever had as well. Other than Gawyn, of course.”

“Really? Was no-one allowed to visit the Daughter-Heir at all? Cause that’s the only explanation that I can think of.”

Elayne gave her a small smile of acknowledgement. “I met many people, including the sons and daughters of the noble Houses of Andor, some of whom were close to my own age. They might even have become friends if I had been allowed to treat them as such. But Mother insisted I keep my distance and treat everyone equally, showing no favour to any one family, lest it be seen as a snub by another. And, naturally, I obeyed. This is the first time I have been free to make any friends of my own.” Her smile turned tremulous. “I’m quite glad of it, as it happens.”

Min took hold of Elayne’s hand and gave it a firm squeeze. How could she not at a time like that? “I’m glad, too. It all worked out just fine as far as I’m concerned,” she said with a wide grin. Elayne returned both the gesture and the smile.

It seemed as good a time as any to bring it up. “You might want to be careful of all this sharing though. You might end up sharing your husband with another woman. Or two of them even! And what a nightmare that would be, right?”

Elayne shook her head. “Oh, now you’re just being silly, Min. I would never put up with that sort of thing.”

She laughed hollowly. “It was never my idea of how to run things either.”

“You know,” said Elayne, too innocently. “Since we are here I might just have a look at this sage tome that was written about you.”

That wiped the smile from Min’s face. “Don’t you dare. I’m sure it’s awful and cringe-worthy and not at all accurate.”

“Come now. It cannot be that bad. Aren’t you curious?”

Min looked away. “Maybe a little bit, but—”

Elayne hopped to her feet. “That settles it then.” She seized Min’s hand and dragged her to her feet. She barely managed to rescue  _ The Limitations of Pure Reason _ with her free hand as Elayne led her off towards the shelves.

“I should never have told you about that book,” she muttered as the Daughter-Heir dragged her through the wooden maze.

“The Wheel of Time turns only forwards,” said Elayne portentously. Then she giggled. “Besides, you want to read it, too. I can tell.”

She was still giggling as she led Min around the next corner. The laughter, and her steps, ended abruptly, and Min bumped into her from behind.

She peered over Elayne’s shoulder, wondering what had caught her attention, then found herself blinking rapidly as her mouth fell open.

Daniele was leaning against one of the shelves, her head thrown back and her eyes squeezed shut. Her long face seemed longer, and her wide cheekbones wider, when she had her mouth stretched open in a silent cry like that. She was wearing her Accepted dress, but it was bunched up around her hips and her long, dark legs were bare. As bare as the dark-hair than covered her sex and the girl’s mouth that was pressed against it. That girl’s big, blue eyes glared at the intruders balefully.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Elayne squeaked, her voice higher than normal.

Daniele’s eyes snapped open, and quickly found the intruders. “What are you doing here?” she gasped, her already dark cheeks darkening more.

“I ... we were just ...” Min began.

“Are you blind, or simply stupid?” asked the kneeling girl, in the accents of Volsung. Her hair was a pale yellow colour, long and straight, and she looked a little like Elayne, but with a rounder, meaner face. “Raja Soblas was laying down.”

“I saw no-one ...” said Elayne confusedly. Her cheeks were scarlet and her eyes had gone very wide.

The unfamiliar girl, an Accepted by her dress, rose to her feet, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. Despite what she had been caught doing, she managed to look quite fierce, and the least ruffled of everyone present. “Stupid it is then. Find another spot, or wait your turn.”

Daniele dropped her skirts back down, and smoothed them angrily. “I know these girls, Ilyena,” she said through gritted teeth. “One’s a new Novice and the other is ... Well, no-one is sure exactly. A guest of the Aes Sedai for some reason. They might not have known the rules.”

This Ilyena was unmoved. “Forgiveness is the Creator’s. Which is why those who do it too often, meet Her so soon.” It had the sound of a quote to Min’s ears, perhaps some Volsuni saying.

“I doubt we need fear dying over this, dearest,” said Daniele dryly.

Elayne licked her lips. “We were only looking for a book,” she said, still sounding very high-pitched.

Daniele advanced on her. “Keep your voice down, would you? Just because it’s expected doesn’t mean you’re supposed to flaunt it before the whole Tower.”

Min stepped up beside Elayne. “Hey, you stay back now. Whatever you’re about, we won’t be having it. I’ll call for the librarians, don’t think I won’t.”

Daniele rolled her eyes extravagantly. “Oh don’t flatter yourself. You’re cute, you both are, but I daresay I can resist the temptation.”

“Temptation to do what?” asked Elayne, in a slightly more normal tone.

The two Accepted exchanged a look. “She cannot be serious, surely,” said the Volsuni.

“With Andorans? I could see it being so,” mused the Domani.

Elayne recovered her poise quickly at that. “I will hear no insults towards Andor,” she proclaimed.

Daniele planted her fists on her narrow hips. “How about truths? Ilyena and I are pillow-friends. There is a book at the far end of the previous shelf written by Raja Soblas. It is currently laying on its side, one of the twelve signs known Tower-wide that call for privacy. Which you ignored. Or didn’t know about, for some reason.”

“No-one told me about these signs,” said Elayne, just as Min said, “ ‘Pillow-friends?’ ”

The two exchanged that look again.

“Like you two, obviously,” Daniele said, with fraying patience. “It’s just a polite way of saying lovers, here in the Tower.”

Min’s mouth had gone very dry. “But we aren’t ... lovers ...” she whispered. They weren’t. She had never even thought about it. Until now. Images blossomed in her mind and she blushed hot.

Daniele sniffed. “If you were trying to keep it a secret, you did a really poor job of it. Everyone has noticed the way you two look at each other. It’s fine, just have some consideration for others the next time you fancy a tryst.”

Elayne stared at the Domani, standing very still and saying not a word. At her side, Min stood just as stiffly, eyes fixed straight ahead. Neither girl dared to so much as glance to her side.  _ Is that true? Does Elayne want to ...? I never thought we ... Don’t look! Is she looking? She isn’t. She wouldn’t be. Is she? Does she think I want to ... do such things ... to her? ... Do I? _

The Accepted waited for a response that never came. At last Ilyena tossed her head scornfully. “Well this is quite ruined. Let’s go, Dani.” She brushed past them all and stalked off down the aisle.

Daniele looked back and forth between the two girls one last time, then shook her head and set off after her friend. Her pillow-friend. Her lover.

That left Min standing stiffly beside her friend. Her ... dear friend. They stood there together in silence for what felt like a long time.

_ I should say something _ , she thought. But her tongue wasn’t working right.  _ Ilyena’s tongue seemed to be working just fine _ , her treacherous mind pointed out, before providing some lewd fancies of Elayne with her skirt bunched up and face wracked with pleasure.  _ Don’t think about that! _ Despite her best efforts, Min’s cheeks darkened.

When she finally worked up the nerve to look Elayne’s way, she found the Daughter-Heir still staring straight ahead, wide eyed and red cheeked.

“Perhaps we should leave,” Min suggested in a tight voice.

The blush spread to the rest of Elayne’s face. “Yes,” was all she said.

Min led the way out of the shelves. She was acutely aware, as she had not been until now, that the breeches she had put on this morning were her tightest pair. She had thought nothing of it, but now she found herself wondering if Elayne was watching her walk as she trailed along silently.

They remained silent as Min replaced her book on the shelf—in the wrong place, but she wasn’t about to worry about that just then—and they exited the Great Library into a cool Amadaine evening. The sun was just starting to dip below the horizon, half its bright warmth consumed by Dragonmount’s looming presence.

Min said nothing, but thought a great deal as they returned to the Tower. They soon came to a cross-corridor. Down one hallway was the Novice Quarters, down the other the guest rooms where Min slept. By some unspoken agreement the girls stopped there and turned to face one another.

Elayne’s bright blue eyes looked even bigger than usual. Her skin was as white as milk.

“Where should we go?” Min whispered. She had no idea why she was whispering, there was no-one nearby.

Elayne stared at her. “Where do you want to go?” she whispered.

She gave a little shrug. “Wherever you want to go.”

They looked at each other in an awkward silence for a while, until some perverse part of Min dragged a breathless snicker from her lips. Before she knew it she was laughing. She covered her mouth with her hand to try and smother the sound.

Elayne gaped at her at first, but she was soon giggling into her palm, too.

“Can you believe the things that Domani said about you?” tittered Elayne, once the laughing fit had run its course.

“Um. I was shocked she would think you were interested in me that way,” Min responded, not meeting her eyes.

“I...” Footsteps sounded in the corridor, coming from the guest rooms and heading their way. Elayne tugged at Min’s sleeve and they set off towards the Novice Quarters.

“I could not believe what I saw,” Elayne whispered. She sent furtive glances at every door and hallway they passed, as though expecting her mother to leap out and lambast her for even speaking of it. “What was that Ilyena doing? And why?”

Min had to stare. “Uh, wasn’t that obvious? I mean, not that I’ve ever done anything like that, but I can imagine—” she cut off, blushing again. “That is, haven’t you ...” Her mouth hung open but no more words would come out. How could she ask the Daughter-Heir of Andor if she had ever played with herself at night?

“Haven’t I what?” Elayne asked, but then she raised her hand imperiously, calling for silence.

The Novice Quarters always seemed a little empty to Min, it had been built to house a great many more students than the Tower had these days. But there were still several white-clad young women wandering the halls or leaning on the high balustrades when they arrived. Elayne eyed them for a moment, then hastened towards the room that Sheriam had assigned her.

She darted inside and let out a relieved sigh, as though she had escaped some imaginary pursuer. Min hesitated at the door. She had visited Elayne’s room before, many times, but somehow it seemed a foreign place that evening.

Elayne saw her hesitation. “Do come in, Min. You are most welcome,” she said with her usual politeness. But then her tongue darted out to wet her lips and her voice become more nervous. “That is, if you’d like. If you’d rather leave, you—”

Min stepped forward into Elayne’s bedchamber and shut the door firmly behind her. As though a dam had been broke and a river set loose onto a new course, a familiar tingle started to spread through her lower body.

The room was small and windowless. White plaster coated the walls and a plain chest, a small table with a three-legged stool, a washstand and mirror, and a single narrow bed were the only furnishings. It seemed a cell to Min, far too small and spare for a girl like Elayne.

But it was also a private, sheltering space. And the silence between the two girls was no longer uncomfortable.

Min blew out a sigh. “What a day.”

“I must say, everything was going quite normally for me. Until that incident in the library. I still don’t quite understand ...”

“Didn’t your mother ... or a nurse, perhaps, ever teach you about, uh, sex?” Min asked, shooting her friend and apologetic grin even as she said it.

Elayne’s back stiffened. “I know what sex is. It is how children are made. I just ... Well, I am not overly familiar with the details. And I wasn’t expecting two women to ... I mean, surely they cannot have children that way?”

That there was even the hint of a question in her voice set Min’s head to shaking. Whatever nurse had been charged with educating Elayne on this matter had not done a good job, not at all. As fussy as her aunts could be, they had been perfectly blunt with Min when that time came.

“No, no children. But they can still make each other feel good. Like when you ... you know?” She hesitated again and bit her lip. She suspected she knew the answer already. “Don’t you?”

“Don’t I what?” asked Elayne, with perfect, trusting innocence.

Min smiled, feeling her cheeks warm again. “Well, touch yourself. When you’re alone, and feeling frustrated and, ah, lusty. Touch yourself down there, I mean.”

Elayne’s brows rose and she pursed her rosebud mouth. “Oh.”

“You never have, have you? Not even once,” she said wonderingly, and Elayne blushed in embarrassment. “You’re adorable.”

“Well, thank you. But why do I feel lacking all of a sudden? Is this a thing most people do? Have you done it?”

Nervousness broadened Min’s smile. She developed a sudden interest in the white ceiling of the room. “I might have. A time or twenty. I’m not saying.”

Truthfully, it wouldn’t even be the first time she’d found herself thinking about another woman while aroused. She had been shocked when Juilaine had tried it on with her, shocked and more than a little frightened. The woman had been an Aes Sedai after all. When those stableboys got too handsy she had been able to fight them off with a knee in one boy’s crotch and an elbow in the other’s mouth, but what could she do against an Aes Sedai? As it happened her fears had been exaggerated. A simple “please stop” had been all it took. In the years since, she had sometimes felt guilty about her reaction; she had, in her nervousness, treated Juilaine as if the woman was about to assault her. She had also, in the dark of night, when she was alone with a pillow to hug and a wandering hand, sometimes wondered what it would have been like if Juilaine hadn’t grimaced in embarrassment and pulled her hand out of Min’s trousers; what it would have felt like if she had held her silence, and let the woman push her back onto the bed, and have her way with her.

“You have so done it,” accused Elayne, watching her intently.

She laughed. “Only by myself. Never like Daniele and Ilyena.”

Elayne stared at her with those big, blue eyes. Her blush showed easily on her fair skin and somehow brought out the gold in her hair. She was altogether beautiful. And she spoke to Min with a voice like a summer breeze. “Would you show me?”

Such a question!  _ Light! This wasn’t what I expected when I saw myself in her future. _ There was only really one answer Min could give. That it was the only one she wanted to give was a rare blessing.

“I’d be happy to,” she said huskily.

She stepped close to Elayne and took her hands in hers, laughing nervously. The Daughter-Heir was several years younger than she, but still taller. She had to go on tiptoe to brush their lips together. S _ o soft. Impossibly soft. _

It was a brief, experimental kiss. Elayne let out a delightful giggle when they parted. “I feel tingles all over,” she whispered.

“Me too,” Min said with a fond smile, knowing it was her first kiss.

She held Elayne’s hands up between them. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. Friends or pillow-friends, I’ll always care for you,” she said kindly. “I could go if you like.” Elayne’s grip tightened. “You said you were tired ...”

She shook her red-gold curls, bright-eyed and excited. “I was. But no longer. Not even a little bit.” This time it was her who leant in for the kiss, soft and probing. Min closed her eyes and let the thrill of it wash over her.

Soon their lips parted again and they walked together to the lone bed, laughing softly.

They sat on the hard mattress, wrapped their arms around each other’s shoulders and kissed some more, with slowly-building passion.

_ Is this what my viewing meant about sharing? _ It might not be nearly as bad as she had feared.

Her body seemed to know what to do, even when Min herself was uncertain. She brushed her hands through Elayne’s hair, trailed her fingers down her soft cheek, pressed towards her more firmly until their breasts touched through the fabric of their clothes.

When her tongue quested timidly out to seek its mate, Elayne pulled back slightly, surprise in her eyes.

Min stared at her. Her heart was pounding in her chest. “Light,” she whispered, “that was ...”

Elayne flashed her dimples. “It certainly was,” she breathed.

Min swallowed, fingers playing with the buttons on her shirt. “Should I ... take this off?”

A moment’s pause, then. “If you like. Actually, yes. I think I would like to see you, if you don’t mind.” Elayne bit her lip. Her chest rose and fell with her deep breaths and Min found herself wanting to see her, too.

She undid her buttons with trembling fingers. “You might be disappointed. I’m nowhere near as beautiful as you.”

“Nonsense,” Elayne said firmly. “You are lovely, Min. Your eyes alone could break anyone’s heart. So big, so dark, so full of life.”

She found herself grinning as she undid the last of her buttons. She sat up straight and pushed her shirt back, letting it fall to the bed behind her and baring her breasts to her friend’s eyes.

They weren’t the biggest, she knew, but they were of a respectable size; naturally tan like the rest of her and tipped with large, brownish nipples. Despite Elayne’s kind words, she couldn’t help but feel a little nervous as she exposed herself and awaited judgement.

Elayne looked flatteringly entranced as she leaned towards her. One graceful hand reached out to cup Min’s breast and give it the lightest of squeezes. Even that was enough to send a thrill of pleasure through her body and stiffen her nipple against her friend’s palm.

“You are beautiful, Min,” she murmured. Her lips on Min’s were less timid now, and there was a hunger growing in her kisses to match Min’s own.

She took Elayne’s breast in her hand, winning a light yelp from the Daughter-Heir, and began to knead it gently through the fabric of her novice dress.

Elayne broke their kiss and stood. She stood and reached down to grab the hem of her dress and yanked it up over her head, swiftly and artlessly. Red-cheeked, she sat right back down again and went back to exploring Min’s lips, giving her barely enough time to take in the sight of her pale, round breasts, tipped in light pink. They had looked only a little bigger than Min’s, and so very kissable. Her hands sought them out again, and kneaded them more firmly this time.

Elayne moaned against Min’s lips, then sucked in a breath and pulled her face back as though shocked by the sound she had made.

“Now that was a lovely thing to hear,” Min murmured, smiling brightly at her.

“You made me do it,” Elayne said in breathless accusation.

Min’s smile deepened. “Good.” She chased her princess’s lips across the bed and bore her down, stroking her breast all the while.

She lay beside Elayne on the narrow bed, kissing her deeply, one arm around her shoulder and a hand tangled in her hair, the other massaging her silky soft flesh. She could feel the nipple become harder under her ministrations and wondered what other signs of arousal she might find if she dared to venture farther down the Daughter-Heir’s body.

Elayne wrapped her arms around Min, and her sweet moans came freely now.

“You asked me to show you what it was like,” Min said huskily. “To touch yourself. Would you still like me to?”

“Is that not dirty? I wouldn’t want you to do anything you thought dirty,” Elayne gasped.

“It isn’t,” she insisted. “But I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”

“Alright,” Elayne breathed, staring earnestly up at her. “But we have to share. It is only fair that I touch you as well.”

“Oh, you impossibly wonderful thing you.” Min kissed her again, hard and deep. This time, when her tongue snuck out to explore Elayne’s mouth, the girl met and matched her.

Novices in the Tower were all given the same kind of clothes to wear, plainly cut and all in white. Elayne still wore her white leather shoes, her knee-length white stockings and a pair of plain white shorts with buttons of white ash.

Min did not feel nervous any more. Her heart was racing, and her breath came hard, but it was not from nervousness. It wasn’t nerves that made her hand shake as she undid the buttons on Elayne’s underwear either.  _ I think I might love this girl _ . It was a heady thing, that realisation. She felt like she was falling, even though she was laying down.

She slid her hand down the front of Elayne’s underwear, brushing through the stiff curls and bringing a loud gasp from their owner’s lips. Her legs inched apart, ever so slightly. It was enough for Min to touch a single, testing finger to her lower lips. She found them warm, and wet, oh so wet, so thrillingly, gratifyingly, welcomingly wet.

She grinned down at Elayne as they explored her body together, softly and slowly. Min touched where she liked to be touched, stroked where she liked to stroke and soon probed where she sometimes probed. She hoped Elayne would like it as much as she did, and from the moans she loosed and the hand that clutched at her forearm, not to pull it away but to hold it in place, she suspected she did.

Elayne’s eyes were squeezed shut and she squirmed helplessly on the bed. Her nipples were very stiff now, a darker pink thrusting proudly up from her beautiful breasts. Down below, her secret nub emerged; Min brushed it with her thumb as she slid a single finger in and out of the girl’s hot, tight hole.

“Oh Light. Min. It feels so good,” cried Elayne as she tossed her gloriously bright curls against the white sheets.

Min drank in the sight of her, lost in the throes of pleasure. It was the finest thing she had ever seen in her life. The White Tower, the Great Library, grim, solitary Dragonmount; they were nothing compared to this. She lowered her head, took one of Elayne’s stiff nipples into her mouth, and sucked on it adoringly.

Elayne thrashed on the bed and let out a high-pitched scream. Her back arched, pressing her breast against Min’s face and her nails dug into her forearm painfully. She held her pose for a long while, then collapsed bonelessly to the bed.

She lay flushed and sweaty in Min’s arms. With each panted breath came a soft little moan as the surging pleasure of the first orgasm of her young life coursed through her body.

“You are so beautiful, Elayne,” she whispered.

Slender arms reached out to embrace her, and pulled her close. “Thank you. Thank you ... for everything.”

Min still had her hand down Elayne’s shorts. She kept it there, cupping her pulsing warmth against her palm as she rested her head on her lover’s—her pillow-friend’s—shoulder.

They lay together for a time, sharing their warmth and basking in the aftermath of Elayne’s orgasm. When her breathing had settled, Elayne planted a little kiss on Min’s brow, then wriggled her way down the bed, seeking and finding her lips, kissing them softly.

“Are you, what was it? Feeling frustrated and lusty, Min?” she asked with wide-eyed innocence.

_ Burn me! She just straight up asks! _ “I did get a little excited, watching you,” she said. That was an understatement. Min was surprised her smallclothes weren’t trying to swim for shore.

“Should I touch you with my finger now?” Elayne whispered. “How did you do that, exactly?”

“Well, I don’t want to describe it,” Min said with an embarrassed laugh. “You just ... do what comes naturally.”

“Oh.” Elayne bit her lip. “Well, what if I, naturally, wanted to try what those other girls were doing?”

Min blinked at her. “You ... you don’t have to. I haven’t even had a bath today.”

“I am sure it will be fine. I would like to make you feel what I just felt.” Elayne pushed herself up on one elbow. Min’s eyes were drawn irresistibly to her breasts.

She didn’t fail to notice the look, and whatever she saw on Min’s face brought her dimpled smile back in force. She clambered energetically from the bed, took Min’s hands in hers and hauled her into a sitting position.

“You will have to take off your breeches,” she said brightly.

Min laughed. “But you haven’t even brought me flowers.”

“Flowers? I could get some from the garden ...”

“Never mind me. One of these days I’m going to have to learn to take things seriously,” Min said with a wry smile. She bent forward to take off her boots, conscious of the way her breasts pressed against her knees, and of Elayne’s gaze.

Depositing the boots at the foot of Elayne’s bed, she stood and undid the waist of her breeches. In the tight quarters of the novice’s chamber she had to turn to the side so she could bend over and shed the last of her clothes. When she stood to her full height once more, she was as naked as the day she was born.

Elayne had watched her intently all the while. “You are beautiful, Min. And you have such a pretty bottom; so curvy! I had the mad urge to bite it just now; I was quite beside myself.”

She blushed and grinned both. “Flatterer! You’re making me blush.”

“Good. I hope to do more of that,” Elayne tapped a finger to her lips and considered Min’s naked form. “Now. How were they doing it again ...”

She gave Min a light push to sit her back down on the bed, then knelt before her and put her hands upon the other girl’s knees. Gently she parted Min’s thighs, exposing her darkly glistening sex.

Elayne pursed her lips as she arranged her hands under Min’s legs and around her waist. Plainly she was trying to mimic the couple, the other couple, they had so shockingly disturbed earlier.

Min didn’t try to correct her, or ask her to do anything in particular. Whatever she did would be completely Elayne and that was more than enough for her. But the anticipation had grown so maddening that she feared she would burst as soon as Elayne touched her; and that slow, careful positioning only made her frustration—and, yes, lustiness!—worse.

Once she had them arranged to her satisfaction, Elayne bent low until her face was inches from Min’s private parts. She sniffed loudly, then smiled up at her. “You smell nice.”

She blushed even hotter this time, and Elayne’s smile grew.

The Daughter-Heir pursed her lips and leaned forward. She gave Min’s sex the slightest of kisses and even that was enough to force a moan from her lips.

Elayne grinned. Emboldened by the noise, she bent to the task with a new ardour.

Every timid, experimental touch of Elayne’s tongue on her loins was sweet torture for Min. Knowing Elayne liked the noises she drew from her lips, she made no effort to conceal her pleasure, her wanton moans sounding loud in the small room. She had to fight the urge to tangle her hands in Elayne’s beautiful red-gold curls and demand more; instead she tangled them in the sheets and stared down beseeching at the girl between her thighs. Elayne’s big blue eyes stared back up at her lovingly over the stiff black hairs that crowned Min’s sex.

It was coming. It was right there, like a storm on the horizon. She wanted desperately to tell Elayne to move her tongue just a little higher, just a little, but she refused to say it, refused to tell her to be or do anything.

In the end she didn’t have to, Elayne found it on her own. One brush of her sweet little tongue against that most sensitive spot was all it took to bring the storm crashing down on them. “Elayne!” Min cried loudly, throwing her head back. Her hands betrayed her and tangled themselves in her lover’s hair, pressing her beautiful face against her sopping-wet slit as she came harder than she ever had before.

She fell back on the bed, groaning in pleasure. And when it proved too narrow to contain her she slid forwards until she almost fell off, her muscles suddenly too weak to support her.

Soft laughter from Elayne, soft hands on her body, pushing her up, bundling her onto the bed. She was too lost in pleasure to pay them much heed. “Elayne,” she whispered again.

Shoes clattered to the floor. There came the whisper of stockings being shed. And a warm, smooth body pressed up against her back on a bed barely big enough for one. Slender arms wrapped around her. Min reached for and found Elayne’s hand, and clutched it between hers.

“Elayne,” she whispered. “I think I love you.”

The girl’s grip tightened. Her breath tickled Min’s ear, her softly spoken words touched her heart. “I think I love you, too, Min.”

Min had always found it hard to accept the inevitability of fate, despite being better positioned than anyone to know just how little say mere mortals had in what the Wheel decreed for them; perhaps because of it even. But sometimes she had to pause and wonder if destiny was really so terrible a thing. As she drifted off to sleep in that narrow bed, with the woman she was destined to share everything in her life with, she couldn’t help but allow that sometimes—only sometimes!—destiny was actually quite wonderful.


	15. Seanchan

CHAPTER 35: Seanchan

It still rankled days later. That she, Ryma Galfrey, an Aes Sedai on the business of the Amyrlin Seat herself, could be denied passage over the border. The audacity of it. The Valreio officer in charge of the blockade had looked appropriately apologetic when he turned her away and urged her to seek an audience with his Riela, but the sight of that smug snake of a Whitecloak, Carridin, smirking at the man’s shoulder had lingered with her all the way to Orlay and back.

Carridin had looked rather less smug when she returned with a letter of authorisation written in Selene’s own hand, but as satisfying as it had been to stare him down, she still regretted the lost time.

She did not know how the Amyrlin had learned of these strange invaders whilst in Fal Dara, almost as far away from Falme as it was possible to be whilst still remaining on the continent, but she was certain now that they were more than mere rumour. She and Zabac had heard talk of little else as they rode through Falmerden, and that little else was nearly as troubling as the wild tales of Artur Hawkwing’s descendants returning. Hatred of the invaders burned hot, but it had not kindled loyalty to the throne. There had been rebellious mutters in the common room of almost every inn they had stayed in these past days, calling into question the response of the King and the army, darkly hinting at traitors in their midst.

Ryma had seen some truth to that herself when she passed through Calranell. King Kaelan and General Surtir had invited her to table, of course, and there she had opportunity to witness their crass argument. The general was convinced that Valreis was bracing for an attack and that the invaders were their catspaws; mercenaries, or Valreio soldiers wearing false colours perhaps. He had spoken with fury of murders and ambushes done by agents bought and paid for, he claimed, by the Winged Throne, loyal men and women killed before they could even come to grips with these so-called Seanchan. If their enemy had come from the other side of the Aryth Ocean how had they managed to place so many assassins in their midst, he had asked his king, angrily stabbing the table with his finger. If it was a true invasion, he demanded, why did they advance so slowly? Why take Falme and a few surrounding settlements and then stop? What were they waiting for? For Valreis, he answered himself, for them to be foolish enough to move the bulk of their forces inland and allow the real enemy to advance. He pointed to the army amassing on the other side of the mountains and opined that it would be madness to leave the eastern border undefended. To all this the King responded simply that the capital must be retaken and the Queen avenged. Their argument had been long and loud and so very ... mannish.

When asked for her input on the matter, Ryma had simple responded that the Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills. The truth was she didn’t know what was happening on Toman Head, ascertaining the truth of the matter was the task the Amyrlin had assigned her, after all, and she had only just arrived. Not that she would admit that, of course. So far as the uninitiated were concerned, the White Tower must be all knowing. Hopefully she could make contact with Sheraine Caminelle, Queen Nora’s Aes Sedai advisor, soon.

Privately she suspected Surtir’s suspicions were closer to the truth. He was accounted one of the great captains of their time, whilst Kaelan ... Well, he was a handsome man still, tall and broad-shouldered, but Queen Nora had not chosen him for his brains.

Ryma glanced to her side, where the ever-watchful Zabac rode, his tall stallion seeming almost a pony beneath him. Kaelan and Surtir had both been tall men, but neither could match her towering Warder. She would never admit it, but his height had been part of why she chose him. She had been a short, skinny child and had grown into a short, slender woman; and whilst being Aes Sedai and commanding the One Power was more than enough to overcome such a disadvantage, she could still remember how intimidating it had been having to look up at everyone. It pleased her to make people look up at her Warder instead.

She frowned as something passed into the bright clouds beyond Zabac’s head.  _ A bird? But that is too far away for it to have looked so big. A Draghkar, perhaps? _

She did not feel the presence of Shadowspawn however, and it was exceedingly unlikely that any could come this far south.

“Volward,” she said, for that was his family name and she believed in keeping an appropriate degree of professionalism between them, “do you feel any hint of danger from the Shadow?”

He glanced at her, then shook his head once. His expression did not shift but she felt his surprise through the bond. The Shadow was not the threat he guarded against today.  _ Perhaps my eyes deceived m _ e.

They were only a few days travel from Falme now. She would have to be cautious and ready to bring  _ saidar _ to bear against any who offered threat. Even an Aes Sedai was not invulnerable to an arrow in the back, not if she was foolish enough to neglect to defend herself.

The sun was just beginning to set when they approached the village. It looked a poor place, but she was sure they would have space for an Aes Sedai and her Warder to sleep, and if they did not recall the appropriate courtesies she would simply have to bully them until they did. It saddened her how often that was necessary.

Ryma saw the attack coming, but it was no arrow that flew at her, it was  _ saidar _ itself. Surprised, she hesitated just a moment, but a moment was all it took for the shield to slam into place around her, cutting her off from the Source. She pushed against it, but whoever had spun and held the shield was not weak and she could not break it that way.

Zabac felt her alarm. He unlimbered the huge sword that slanted across his back. “Where?” he asked. By his standards that was a conversation, it was not unheard of for him to go days without speaking at all.

“I am shielded,” she said with more calmness than she felt. “By a woman, not a man.”

A dozen men scuttled over the unmortared stone walls on either side of the road. Their armour seemed almost black in the light of the setting sun; that and their strange helmets made them look like nothing so much as man-sized insects. Swords hung at the waists of some and the shoulders of others but it was with loaded crossbows that they menaced the travellers. Beyond them, near the outskirts of the village, five women in strange dresses emerged, two in plain grey and three in red and blue. The sunlight glinted on their silver jewellery. One of the women in grey, a stout, almost matronly woman with strangely guileless eyes was surrounded by the nimbus of  _ saidar _ .

“Surrender,” called one of the men. “Drop your sword and reswear your oaths to the Empress, may she live forever, and you will be forgiven your ancestor’s crimes.”

He spoke to Zabac, but it was Ryma who answered. “How dare you accost me?” she said in her most regal tone. “Know that I am here on the business of the Amyrlin Seat herself, before whom even thrones tremble.” She fixed the stout wilder with an imperious glare. “I shall allow you a moment to release this shield. Force me to break it, and you may spend the rest of your days weeping at your folly.”

Something in the woman’s unblinking eyes disturbed Ryma, and she was thankful for the years of training that allowed her to keep her expression smooth. The shield remained in place.

“Bethamin. Silence this  _ marath’damane _ ,” said the man. His slurred accent was such that she could not make out the last word, though it had the ring of the Old Tongue to it. “That she is allowed to speak to humans disgusts me.”

“As you say, Captain Bakuun,” a tall, dark-skinned woman responded calmly, as though the man she addressed was not the lunatic he plainly was. She advanced on Ryma, uncoiling a silvery rope as she walked.

Zabac placed his horse between them, almost seven feet of leather and muscle, wielding in one hand a sword that most men would need two to even lift, he was a sight to intimidate even the most stalwart hearts.

Or excite the most eager fools. One of the soldiers pulled off his helmet and tossed it aside, revealing a youthfully handsome, sun-dark face and a mop of sandy hair; he stepped forward, twirling two shortswords in his hands. “You had your chance oath-breaker, come down off that horse and face me. In the Empress’ name, I challenge you.”

Zabac barely glanced at him. She felt him searching for a target among the ambushers. She knew, as he did, what he would have to do. There were too many for even him to defeat, but if he could just get to the wilder ... if Ryma could gain access to  _ saidar _ again ...

“Get back in formation, Van,” barked Bakuun.

Even as he spoke Ryma called out, “The fat woman in grey; take her down, Volward!”

Zabac granted the boy his challenge, if challenge you could call it. He leapt from his horse with a speed that was ever shocking on a man his size and ran the boy through with a single sure thrust of his sword. The other soldiers aimed their crossbows at her Warder but hesitated to fire lest they hit their own man. That moment’s hesitation was all Zabac needed. He spun on his heel, using his sword and the groaning corpse impaled on it like some macabre sling, and threw the ruin of young Van at the stout woman.

Crossbows thrummed and she felt the echo of her Warder’s pain, but Ryma held her nerve. Zabac’s aim was true, the woman went down under the gory missile, her line of sight on Ryma broken, and surely her concentration with it. Desperately she battered at the shield that held her, trying to reach  _ saidar _ , but no matter how hard she tried it would not budge. The woman could not be maintaining the shield, not in those conditions. Wilders always thought you needed to see something to be able to use the One Power on it, and even an Aes Sedai would have difficulty mustering the concentration needed to channel with a dying man on top of her.

A slender, yellow-haired woman stood over the fallen pair, the silvery cord that ran from the stout woman to a bracelet on her wrist writhing with the wilder’s panicked thrashes. She frowned intently at Ryma, her single-minded concentration such that it might have seemed she was the one holding the shield, except that no tell-tale light surrounded her.

A man’s scream brought her attention to the brawl in time to see Zabac send another soldier flying, she could not tell if invader’s armour had stopped the blade from cutting his flesh but she suspected it would make little difference, the impact alone should have been enough to shatter his ribs. Zabac redirected his blade towards the neck of another of their foes but this one ducked under its arc and rolled away, discarding his spent crossbow and dragging a long, slightly-curved and single-edged sword from its sheathe on his back. Three bolts were already lodged in her Warder’s flesh, in his right leg, his right shoulder and his thick gut. She could feel his pain through the bond, but his broad face showed only fierce determination. Three men lay dead already. He charged at the crossbowmen as they struggled to reload; a hulking, silent hero.

A girl in a red-and-blue dress whispered something to the slight, red-haired woman at her side. The glow of  _ saidar _ suddenly surrounded the grey-robed, jittery-looking woman and she glanced at the charging Warder. Ryma saw the threads being spun, knew what they formed, but could do nothing; no matter how she strained,  _ saidar _ remained beyond her reach.

“Zabac!” she cried, the first time she had every called him aloud by his given name.

And the last time. A bolt of lightning erupted from the redhead’s upraised hand. Fast as he was, Zabac could no more than twitch before it struck him. Strong as he was, he was catapulted backwards by the impact. Brave as he was, he was dead before he hit the dirt of that little Falmeran road. Ryma felt his death, she felt the bond snap, and none of her training and discipline could stop the hot tears that spilled down her cheeks.

She was barely aware of the dark woman’s renewed approach and the silvery collar she held open in her hands. But when the officer shoved her aside, gaze fixed on the corpses of his men, the naked anger on his face demanded Ryma’s attention. He was very tall and very strange, and suddenly she was very small and alone.

“ _ Marath’damane _ scum,” he snarled. Ryma blinked as the translation came to her.  _ Those Who Must Be Leashed? What a bizarre term _ . Then his gauntleted fist connected with her jaw, and she saw and thought no more.

* * *

The long swells of the Aryth Ocean made  _ Spray _ roll, but Bayle Domon’s spread feet balanced him as he held the long tube of the looking glass to his eye and studied the large vessel that pursued them. Pursued, and was slowly overtaking. The wind where  _ Spray _ ran was not the best or the strongest, but where the other ship smashed the swells into mountains of foam with its bluff bow, it could not have blown better. The coastline of Toman Head loomed to the north, dark cliffs and narrow strips of sand, with few landings large enough to welcome more than a dinghy. He had not cared to take  _ Spray _ too far out, and now he feared he might pay for it.

“Strangers, Captain?” Yarin had the sound of sweat in his voice. “Is it a strangers’ ship?”

Bayle lowered the looking glass, but his eye still seemed filled by that tall, square-looking ship with its odd ribbed sails. “Seanchan,” he said, and heard Yarin groan. He drummed his thick fingers on the rail, then told the helmsman, “Take her closer in. That ship will no dare enter the shallow waters  _ Spray _ can sail.”

Yarin shouted commands, and crewmen ran to haul in booms as the helmsman put the tiller over, pointing the bow more toward the shoreline.  _ Spray _ moved more slowly, heading so far into the wind, but Domon was sure he could reach shoal waters before the other vessel came up on him.  _ Did her holds be full, she could still take shallower water than ever that great hull can _ .

His ship rode a little higher in the water than she had on sailing from Tanchico. A third of the cargo of fireworks he had taken on there was gone, sold in the fishing villages on the Domani coast, but with the silver that flowed for the fireworks had come disturbing reports. The people spoke of visits from the tall, boxy ships of the invaders. When Seanchan ships anchored off the coast, the villagers who drew up to defend their homes were rent by lightning from the sky while small boats were still ferrying the invaders ashore, and the earth erupted in fire under their feet. Bayle had thought he was hearing nonsense until he was shown the blackened ground, and he had seen it in too many villages to doubt any longer. Monsters fought beside the Seanchan soldiers, not that there was ever much resistance left, the villagers said, and some even claimed that the Seanchan themselves were monsters, with heads like huge insects.

In Tanchico, no-one had even known what they called themselves, and the Taraboners spoke confidently of their soldiers driving the raiders into the sea. But in every coastal town, it was different. The Seanchan told astonished people they must swear again oaths they had forsaken, though never deigning to explain when they had forsaken them, or what the oaths meant. The young women were taken away one by one to be examined, and some were carried aboard the ships and never seen again. A few older women had also vanished, some of the Guides and Medicine Women. New mayors were chosen by the Seanchan, and new Councils, and any who protested the disappearances of the women or having no voice in the choosing might be hung, or burst suddenly into flame, or be brushed aside like yapping dogs. There was no way of telling which it would be until it was too late.

And when the people had been thoroughly cowed, when they had been made to kneel and swear, bewildered, to obey the Forerunners, await the Return, and serve Those Who Come Home with their lives, the Seanchan sailed away and usually never returned. Falme, it was said, was the only city they held fast.

In some of the villages they had left, men and women crept back toward their former lives, to the extent of talking about electing their Councils again, but most eyed the sea nervously and made pale-cheeked protests that they meant to hold to the oaths they had been made to swear even if they did not understand them.

The Valreio he had spoken to in Orlay had been dismissive of his tales, but he could not help but notice that there were more soldiers in the city than there had been on his previous visits.

Bayle had no intention of meeting any Seanchan, if he could avoid it.  _ I should have turned back after Orlay. I should have made for Illian instead of Northport, burn my eyes _ .

He was raising the glass to see what he could make out on the nearing Seanchan decks, when, with a roar, the surface of the sea broke into fountaining water and flame not a hundred paces from his larboard side. Before he had even begun to gape, another column of flame split the sea on the other side, and as he was spinning to stare at that, another burst up ahead. The eruptions died as quickly as they were born, spray from them blown across the deck. Where they had been, the sea bubbled and steamed as if boiling.

“We ... we’ll reach shallow water before they can close with us,” Yarin said slowly. He seemed to be trying not to look at the water roiling under clouds of mist.

Bayle shook his head. “Whatever they did, they can shatter us, even do I take her into the breakers.” He shivered, thinking of the flame inside the fountains of water, and his holds full of fireworks. “Fortune prick me, we might no live to drown.” He tugged at his beard and rubbed his bare upper lip, reluctant to give the order—the vessel and what it contained were all he had in the world—but finally he made himself speak. “Bring her into the wind, Yarin, and down sail. Quickly, man, quickly! Before they do think we still try to escape.”

As crewmen ran to lower the triangular sails, Bayle turned to watch the Seanchan ship approach.  _ Spray _ lost headway and pitched in the swells. The other vessel stood taller above the water than Domon’s ship, with wooden towers at bow and stern. Men were in the rigging, raising those strange sails, and armoured figures stood atop the towers. A longboat was put over the side, and sped toward  _ Spray _ under ten oars. It carried armoured shapes, and—Bayle frowned in surprise—two women crouched in the stern. The longboat thumped against  _ Spray’s _ hull.

The first to climb up was one of the armoured men, and Bayle saw immediately why some of the villagers claimed the Seanchan themselves were monsters. The helmet looked very much like some monstrous insect’s head, with thin red plumes like feelers; the wearer seemed to be peering out through mandibles. It was painted and gilded to increase the effect, and the rest of the man’s armour was also worked with paint and gold. Overlapping plates in black and red outlined with gold covered his chest and ran down the outsides of his arms and the fronts of his thighs. Even the steel backs of his gauntlets were red and gold. Where he did not wear metal, his clothes were dark leather. The two-handed sword on his back, with its curved blade, was scabbarded and hilted in black-and-red leather.

Then the armoured figure removed his helmet, and Bayle stared. He was a woman. Her dark hair was cut short, and her face was hard, but there was no mistaking it. Just as disconcerting was the fact that her face did not look as different as he had expected of a Seanchan. Her eyes were blue, it was true, and her skin exceedingly fair, but he had seen both before. If this woman wore a dress, no-one would look at her twice. He eyed her and revised his opinion, that cold stare and those hard cheeks would make her remarked anywhere. The last woman he had seen dressed so atypically had still seemed girlish to him, despite her garb. There was nothing girlish about this one.

The other soldiers followed the woman onto the deck. Bayle was relieved to see, when some of them removed their strange helmets, that they, at least, were men; men with black eyes, or brown, who could have gone unnoticed in Tanchico or Illian. He had begun to have visions of armies of blue-eyed women with swords.  _ Aes Sedai with swords _ , he thought, remembering the sea erupting.

The Seanchan woman surveyed the ship arrogantly, then picked Bayle out as captain—it had to be him or Yarin, by their clothes; the way Yarin had his eyes closed and was muttering prayers under his breath pointed to Bayle—and fixed him with a stare like a spike.

“Are there any women among your crew or passengers?” She spoke with a soft slurring that made her hard to understand, but there was a snap in her voice that said she was used to getting answers. “Speak up, man, if you are the captain. If not, wake that other fool and tell him to speak.”

“I do be captain, my Lady,” Bayle said cautiously. He had no idea how to address her, and he did not want to put a foot wrong. “I have no passengers, and there be no women in my crew.” He thought of the girls and women who had been carried off, and, not for the first time, wondered what these folk wanted with them.

The two women dressed as women were coming up from the longboat, one drawing the other— Bayle blinked—by a leash of silvery metal as she climbed aboard. The leash went from a bracelet worn by the first woman to a collar around the neck of the second. He could not tell whether it was woven or jointed—it seemed somehow to be both—but it was clearly of a piece with both bracelet and collar. The first woman gathered the leash in coils as the other came onto the deck. The collared woman wore plain dark grey and stood with her hands folded and her eyes on the planks under her feet. The other had red panels bearing forked, silver lightning bolts on the breast of her blue dress and on the sides of her skirts, which ended short of the ankles of her boots. Bayle eyed the women uneasily.

“Speak slowly, man,” the blue-eyed woman demanded in her slurred speech. She came across the deck to confront him, staring up at him and in some way seeming taller and larger than he. “You are even harder to understand than the rest in this Light-forsaken land. And I make no claim to be of the Blood. Not yet. After  _ Corenne _ ... I am Captain Egeanin Sarna of the  _ Fearless _ .”

Bayle repeated himself, trying to speak slowly, and added, “I do be a peaceful trader, Captain. I mean no harm to you, and I have no part in your war.” He could not help eyeing the two women connected by the leash again.

“A peaceful trader?” Egeanin mused. “In that case, you will be free to go once you have sworn fealty again.” She noticed his glances and turned to smile at the women with the pride of ownership. “You admire my  _ damane _ ? She cost me dear, but she was worth every coin. Few but nobles own a  _ damane _ , and most are property of the throne. She is strong, trader. She could have broken your ship to splinters, had I wished it so.”

Domon stared at the women and the silver leash. He had connected the one wearing the lightning with the fiery fountains in the sea, and assumed she was an Aes Sedai. Egeanin had just set his head whirling. No-one could do that to ... “She is Aes Sedai?” he said disbelievingly.

He never saw the casual backhand blow coming. He staggered as her steel-backed gauntlet split his lip.

“That name is never spoken,” Egeanin said with a dangerous softness. “There are only the  _ damane _ , the Leashed Ones, and now they serve in truth as well as name.” Her eyes made ice seem warm.

Bayle swallowed blood and kept his hand clenched at his sides. If he had had a sword to hand, he would not have led his crew to slaughter against a dozen armoured soldiers, but it was an effort to make his voice humble. “I meant no disrespect, Captain. I know nothing of you or your ways. If I do offend, it is ignorance, no intention.”

She looked at him, then said, “You are all ignorant, Captain, but you will pay the debt of your forefathers. This land was ours, and it will be ours again. With the Return, it will be ours again.” Bayle did not know what to say— _ Surely she can no mean that nattering about Artur Hawkwing be true? _ —so he kept his mouth shut. “You will sail your vessel to Falme”—he tried to protest, but her glare silenced him—“where you and your ship will be examined. If you are no more than a peaceful trader, as you claim, you will be allowed to go your way when you have sworn the oaths.”

“Oaths, Captain? What oaths?”

“To obey, to await, and to serve. Your ancestors should have remembered.”

She gathered her people—except for a single man in plain armour, which marked him of low rank as much as the depth of his bow to Captain Egeanin—and their longboat pulled away toward the larger ship. The remaining Seanchan gave no orders, only sat cross-legged on the deck and began sharpening his sword while the crew put sail on and got under way. He seemed to have no fear at being alone, and Bayle would have personally thrown overboard any crewman who raised a hand to him, for as  _ Spray _ made her way along the coast, the Seanchan ship followed, out in deeper water. There was a mile between the two vessels, but Domon knew there was no hope of escape, and he meant to deliver the man back to Captain Egeanin as safely as if he had been cradled in his mother’s arms.

It was a long passage to Falme, and Bayle finally persuaded the Seanchan to talk, a little. A dark-eyed man in his middle years, with an old scar above his eyes and another nicking his chin, his name was Caban, and he had nothing but contempt for anyone this side of the Aryth Ocean. That gave Bayle a moment’s pause.  _ Maybe they truly do be ... No, that do be madness _ . Caban’s speech had the same slur as Egeanin’s, but where hers was silk sliding across iron, his was leather rasping on rock, and mostly he wanted to talk about battles, drinking, and women he had known. Half the time, Bayle was not certain if he were speaking of here and now, or of wherever he had come from. The man was certainly not forthcoming about anything Bayle wanted to know.

Once Bayle asked about the  _ damane _ . Caban reached up from where he sat in front of the helmsman and put the point of his sword to Bayle’s throat. “Watch what your tongue touches, or you will lose it. That’s the business of the Blood, not your kind. Or mine.” He grinned while he said it and as soon as he was done, he went back to sliding a stone along his heavy, curved blade.

Bayle touched the point of blood welling above his collar and resolved not to ask that again, at least.

The closer the two vessels came to Falme, the more of the tall, square-looking Seanchan ships they passed, some under sail, but more anchored. Every one was bluff-bowed and towered, as big as anything Bayle had ever seen, even among the Sea Folk. A few local craft, he saw, with their sharp bows and slanted sails, darted across the green swells. The sight gave him confidence that Egeanin had spoken the truth about letting him go free.

When  _ Spray _ came up on the headland where Falme stood, Bayle gaped at the numbers of the Seanchan ships anchored off the harbour. He tried counting them and gave up at a hundred, less than halfway done. He had seen as many ships in one place before—in Illian, and Tear, and even Tanchico —but those vessels had included many smaller craft. Muttering glumly to himself, he took  _ Spray _ into the harbour, shepherded by her great Seanchan watchdog.

Falme stood on a spit of land at the very tip of Toman Head, with nothing further west of it except the Sea Folk islands and the Aryth Ocean. High cliffs ran to the harbour mouth on both sides. Atop the northern cliffs loomed the Divalaird, its familiar beacon fire not quite so comforting without the Warhounds flying near; in their place there was what appeared, at a distance, to be a golden bird on a white banner.  _ A hawk? _ On the isolated southern cliffs, where every ship running into the harbour had to pass under them, stood the towers of the Watchers Over the Waves. A cage hung over the side of one of the towers, with a man sitting in it despondently, legs dangling through the bars.

“Who is that?” Bayle asked.

Caban had finally given over sharpening his sword, after Bayle had begun to wonder if he meant to shave with it. The Seanchan glanced up to where Bayle pointed. “Oh. That is the First Watcher. Not the one who sat in the chair when we first came, of course. Every time he dies, they choose another, and we put him in the cage.”

“But why?” Bayle demanded.

Caban’s grin showed too many teeth. “They watched for the wrong thing, and forgot when they should have been remembering.”

Bayle tore his eyes away from the Seanchan.  _ Spray _ slid down the last real sea swell and into the quieter waters of the harbour.  _ I do be a trader, and it is none of my business _ .

Falme rose from stone docks up the slopes of the hollow that made the harbour. Its outer walls, which began a hundred feet from the coast and stretched in a great arc, ending abruptly at the cliffs of the northern coast, were made from the same dark granite as the buildings within. Few of those stood taller than two stories and none were as stylized as even the meanest palace in Illian. Falme was a young city, though the Divalaird, the towerfort around which it had been built, was much older. It was there that the Queen of Falmerden sat her throne. Or used to sit it.

He guided  _ Spray _ to a place at one of the docks, and wondered, while the crew tied the ship fast, if the Seanchan might buy some of the fireworks in his hold.  _ None of my business _ .

To his surprise, Egeanin had herself rowed to the dock with her  _ damane _ . There was another woman wearing the bracelet this time, with the red panels and forked lightning on her dress, but the  _ damane _ was the same sad-faced woman who never looked up unless the other spoke to her. Egeanin had Bayle and his crew herded off the ship to sit on the dock under the eyes of a pair of her soldiers —she seemed to think no more were needed, and Bayle was not about to argue with her—while others searched  _ Spray _ under her direction. The  _ damane _ was part of the search.

Down the dock, a thing appeared. Bayle could think of no other way to describe it. A hulking creature with a leathery, grey-green hide and a beak of a mouth in a wedge-shaped head. And three eyes. It lumbered along beside a man whose armour bore three painted eyes, just like those of the creature. The local people, dockmen and sailors in roughly embroidered shirts and long vests to their knees, shied away as the pair passed, but no Seanchan gave them a second glance. The man with the beast seemed to be directing it with hand signals.

Man and creature turned in among the buildings, leaving Bayle staring and his crew muttering to themselves. The two Seanchan guards sneered at them silently.  _ No my business _ , Bayle reminded himself. His business was his ship.

The air had a familiar smell of salt water and pitch. He shifted uneasily on the stone, hot from the sun, and wondered what the Seanchan were searching for. What the  _ damane _ was searching for. Wondered what that thing had been. Gulls cried, wheeling above the harbour. He thought of the sounds a caged man might make.  _ It is no my business _ .

Eventually Egeanin led the others back onto the dock. The Seanchan captain had something wrapped in a piece of yellow silk, Bayle noted warily. Something small enough to carry in one hand, but which she held carefully in both.

He got to his feet—slowly, for the soldiers’ sake, though their eyes held the same contempt Caban’s did. “You see, Captain? I do be only a peaceful trader. Perhaps your people would care to buy some fireworks?”

“Perhaps, trader.” There was an air of suppressed excitement about her that made him uneasy, and her next words increased the feeling. “You will come with me.”

She told two soldiers to come along, and one of them gave Bayle a push to get him started. I was not a rough shove; Bayle had seen farmers push a cow in the same way to make it move. Setting his teeth, he followed Egeanin.

The cobblestone street climbed the slope, leaving the smell of the harbour behind. They passed through a gateway and he noted the freshness of the wooden planks on the gate. Inside the walls the slate-roofed houses grew larger and taller as the street climbed. Surprisingly for a city held by invaders, the streets held more local people than Seanchan soldiers, and now and again a curtained palanquin was borne past by bare-chested men. The Falmerans seemed to be going about their business as if the Seanchan were not there. Or almost not there. When palanquin or soldier passed, both poor folk, and the richer, with shirts, vests, and dresses decorated with rich furs, bowed and remained bent until the Seanchan were gone. They did the same for Bayle and his guard. Neither Egeanin nor the soldiers so much as glanced at them.

Bayle frowned uneasily. This was not what he would have expected of Falmerans. They were famed for their fierce independence, for their wars with Valreis and the victories they had won against their richer, more populous neighbour. When he heard that yet another invasion had come to their lands he had expected them to meet it with the same defiance. But these men looked ... cowed.

Bayle realized with a sudden shock that some of the local people they passed wore daggers at their belts, and in a few cases swords. He was so surprised that he spoke without thinking. “Some of them be on your side?”

Egeanin frowned over her shoulder at him, obviously puzzled. Without slowing, she looked at the people and nodded to herself. “You mean the swords. They are our people, now, trader; they have sworn the oaths.” She stopped abruptly, pointing at a tall, heavy-shouldered man with a heavily embroidered vest and a sword swinging on a plain leather baldric. “You.”

The man halted in mid-step, one foot in the air and a frightened look suddenly on his face. It was a hard face, but he looked as if he wanted to run. Instead, he turned to her and bowed, hands on knees, eyes fixed on her boots. “How may this one serve the captain?” he asked in a tight voice.

“You are a merchant?” Egeanin said. “You have sworn the oaths?”

“Yes, Captain. Yes.” He did not take his eyes from her feet.

“What do you tell the people when you take your wagons inland?”

“That they must obey the Forerunners, Captain, await the Return, and serve Those Who Come Home.”

“And do you never think to use that sword against us?”

The man’s hands went white-knuckled gripping his knees, and there was suddenly sweat in his voice. “I have sworn the oaths, Captain. I obey, await, and serve.”

“You see?” Egeanin said, turning to Bayle. “There is no reason to forbid them weapons. There must be trade, and merchants must protect themselves from bandits. We allow the people to come and go as they will, so long as they obey, await, and serve. Their forefathers broke their oaths, but these have learned better.” She started back up the hill, and the soldiers pushed Bayle after her.

He looked back at the merchant. The man stayed bent as he was till Egeanin was ten paces up the street, then he straightened and hurried the other way, leaping down the sloping street.

Egeanin and his guards did not look around, either, when a mounted Seanchan troop passed them, climbing the street. The soldiers rode creatures that looked almost like cats the size of horses, but with lizards’ scales rippling bronze beneath their saddles. Clawed feet grasped the cobblestones. A three-eyed head turned to regard Bayle as the troop climbed by; aside from everything else, it seemed too—knowing—for Bayle’s peace of mind. He stumbled and almost fell. All along the street, the Falmerans were pressing themselves back against the fronts of the buildings, some closing their eyes. The Seanchan paid them no heed.

Bayle understood why the Seanchan could allow the people as much freedom as they did. He wondered if he would have had nerve enough to resist.  _ Damane _ . Monsters. He wondered if there was anything to stop the Seanchan from marching all the way to the Spine of the World.  _ No my business, _ he reminded himself roughly, and considered whether there was any way to avoid the Seanchan in his future trading.

They reached the top of the incline, where the town gave way to hills. Ahead were the inns that served merchants who traded inland, and wagon yards and stables. Here, the houses would have made respectable manors for the minor lords in Illian.

Beyond was the Divalaird, the thick, well-fitted, grey stone of the fortress at its base tapering away until they came to a narrow point upon which a signal fire burnt day and night to warn passing ships of the cliffs nearby. A blue-edged banner bearing a golden, spread-winged hawk rippled above it. The studded gates were closed and an honour guard of Seanchan soldiers stood out front.

On the paved square that fronted the main gates to the Divalaird was a sight than Bayle had to struggle to make sense of. On an isolated spot, central to the square, a thick stone base had been raised to support a long, wooden stake, and on that stake there hung a piece of meat. Meat with a human shape and a few hanks of golden hair still remaining on its head.

He swallowed noisily. “Do that be ...?”

Egeanin nodded, indifferent to the sight. “The so-called Queen of these lands. A traitor who refused to reswear the oaths, and was duly punished. Death by slow impalement. Many other fools followed her example. Though fewer in recent weeks.”

Bayle’s blood ran cold. He had never met Queen Nora in person, but he had seen her in passing, during his other visits to Falme. She had been a beautiful woman, strong and proud. He wondered if her children had shared her fate.  _ No my business! _

The stake ran from the corpse’s crotch through the trunk before emerging at the neck, he noticed, before ripping his gaze away.  _ I would no wish such a fate on my worst enemy _ .

Egeanin surrendered her sword and dagger before taking Bayle inside. Her two soldiers remained in the street. Bayle began to sweat. He smelled a noble in this; it was never good to do business with a noble on the noble’s own ground.

In the front hall Egeanin left Bayle at the door and spoke to a servant. A local man, judging by the fur-trimmed boots and wide trousers; Bayle believed he caught the words “High Lord.” The servant hurried away, returning finally to lead them, not to the throne room, as Bayle had expected, but to a large solar. Every stick of furniture had been cleared out of it, even the rugs, and the stone floor was polished to a bright gleam. Folding screens painted with strange birds hid walls and windows.

Egeanin stopped just inside the room. When Bayle tried to ask where they were and why, she silenced him with a savage glare and a wordless growl. She did not move, but she seemed on the point of bouncing on her toes. She held whatever it was she had taken from his ship as if it were precious. He tried to imagine what it could be.

Suddenly a gong sounded softly, and the Seanchan woman dropped to her knees, setting the silk-wrapped something carefully beside her. At a look from her, Bayle got down as well. Lords had strange ways, and he suspected Seanchan lords might have stranger ones than he knew.

Two men appeared in the doorway at the far end of the room. One had the left side of his scalp shaved, his remaining pale golden hair braided and hanging down over his ear to his shoulder. His deep yellow robe was just long enough to let the toes of yellow slippers peek out when he walked. The other wore a blue silk robe, brocaded with birds and long enough to trail along the floor behind him. His head was shaved bald, and his fingernails were at least an inch long, those on the first two fingers of each hand lacquered blue. Domon’s mouth dropped open.

“You are in the presence of the High Lord Turak Aladon,” the yellow-haired man intoned, “who leads Those Who Come Before, and succours the Return.”

Egeanin prostrated herself with her hands at her sides. Bayle imitated her with alacrity.  _ Even the High Lords of Tear would no demand this _ , he thought. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Egeanin kissing the floor. With a grimace, he decided there was a limit to imitation.  _ They can no see whether I do or no anyway _ .

Egeanin suddenly stood. He started to rise as well, and made it as far as one knee before a growl in her throat and a scandalized look on the face of the man with the braid put him back down, face to the floor and muttering under his breath.  _ I would no do this for the Queen of Illian and the Council of Nine together _ .

“Your name is Egeanin?” It had to be the voice of the man in the blue robe. His slurring speech had a rhythm almost like singing.

“I was so named on my sword-day, High Lord,” she replied humbly.

“This is a fine specimen, Egeanin. Quite rare. Do you wish a payment?”

“That the High Lord is pleased is payment enough. I live to serve, High Lord.”

“I will mention your name to the Empress, Egeanin. After the Return, new names will be called to the Blood. Show yourself fit, and you may shed the name Egeanin for a higher.”

“The High Lord honours me.”

“Yes. You may leave me.”

Bayle could see nothing but her boots backing out of the room, pausing at intervals for bows. The door closed behind her. There was a long silence. He was watching sweat from his forehead drip onto the floor when Turak spoke again.

“You may rise, trader.”

Bayle got to his feet, and saw what Turak held in his long-nailed fingers. A little statue of a bird he had found for sale in Ebou Dar on his last visit, it was finely made and all of polished red stone. Very old, but without a single chip or scratch.

“Do you know what this is, trader?” There was no animosity in the High Lord’s dark eyes only a slight curiosity, but Bayle did not trust lords.

“No, High Lord.” Bayle’s reply was as steady as a rock; no trader lasted long who couldn’t lie with a straight face and an easy voice.

“And yet you kept it in a secret place.”

“I do collect old things, High Lord, from times past. There do be those who would steal such did they lay easy to hand.”

Turak regarded the red bird for a moment. “This is  _ cuendillar _ , trader—do you know that name?—and older than you perhaps know. Come with me.”

Bayle followed the man cautiously, feeling a little more sure of himself. With any lord of the lands he knew, if guards were going to be summoned, they already would have been. But the little he had seen of Seanchan told him they did not do things as other men did. He schooled his face to stillness.

He was led into another room. He thought the furniture here had to have been brought by Turak. It seemed to be made of curves, with no straight lines at all, and the wood was polished to bring out strange graining. There was one chair, on a silk carpet woven in birds and flowers, and one large cabinet made in a circle. Folding screens made new walls.

The man with the braid opened the doors of the cabinet to reveal shelves holding an odd assortment of figurines, cups, bowls, vases, fifty different things, no two alike in size or shape. Bayle’s breath caught at the sight.

“ _ Cuendillar _ ,” Turak said. “That is what I collect, trader. Only the Empress herself has a finer collection.”

Bayle’s eyes almost popped out of his head. If everything on those shelves was truly  _ cuendillar _ , it was enough to buy a country, or at the least to found a great House. Even a king might beggar himself to buy so much of it, if he even knew where to find so much. He put on a smile.

Turak set the little bird down beside another piece, a thick disk the size of a man’s hand, half white and half black, a sinuous line separating the colours. Bayle recognised the design, it was the ancient symbol of Aes Sedai from before the Breaking of the World, but he was nowhere near foolish enough to mention that in front of the Seanchan lord.

“High Lord, please accept this piece as a gift.” He did not want to let it go, but that was better than angering this Seanchan. “I do be but a simple trader. I want only to trade. Let me sail, and I do promise that—”

Turak’s expression never changed, but the man with the braid cut Bayle off with a snapped, “Unshaven dog! You speak of giving the High Lord what Captain Egeanin has already given. You bargain, as if the High Lord were a—a merchant! You will be flayed alive over nine days, dog, and—” The barest motion of Turak’s finger silenced him.

“I cannot allow you to leave me, trader,” the High Lord said. “In this shadowed land of oath-breakers, I find none who can converse with a man of sensibilities. But you are a collector. Perhaps your conversation will be interesting.” He took the chair, lolling back in its curves to study Bayle.

Bayle put on what he hoped was an ingratiating smile. “High Lord, I do be a simple trader, a simple man. I do no have the way of talking with great Lords.”

The man with the braid glared at him, but Turak seemed not to hear. From behind one of the screens, a slim, pretty young woman appeared on quick feet to kneel beside the High Lord, offering a lacquered tray bearing a single cup, thin and handleless, of some steaming black liquid. Her dark, round face was vaguely reminiscent of the Sea Folk. Turak took the cup carefully in his long-nailed fingers, never looking at the young woman, and inhaled the fumes. Bayle took one look at the girl and pulled his eyes away with a strangled gasp; her white silk robe was embroidered with flowers, but so sheer he could see right through it, and there was nothing beneath but her own slimness.

“The aroma of  _ kaf _ ,” Turak said, “is almost as enjoyable as the flavour. Now, trader. I have learned that  _ cuendillar _ is even more rare here than in Seanchan. Tell me how a simple trader came to possess a piece.” He sipped his  _ kaf _ and waited.

Bayle Domon took a deep breath and set about trying to lie his way out of Falme.


	16. Blending In

CHAPTER 38: Blending In

Lord Barthanes’ manor crouched like a huge toad in the night, covering as much ground as a fortress, with all its walls and outbuildings. It was no fortress, though, with tall windows everywhere, and lights, and the sounds of music and laughter drifting out, yet Rand saw guards moving on the tower tops and along the roofwalks, and none of the windows were close to the ground. He got down from Red’s back and smoothed his coat, adjusted his sword belt. The others dismounted around him, at the foot of broad, white stone stairs leading up to the wide, heavily carved doors of the manor.

Ten Shienarans, under Uno, made an escort. The one-eyed man exchanged small nods with Ingtar before taking his men to join the other escorts, where ale had been provided and a whole ox was roasting on a spit by a big fire.

The other ten Shienarans—Masema among them to Rand’s relief; it would have been especially difficult to act the lord with that one around—had been left behind; except for Areku, who was not at all happy to have been invited.

“This is humiliating,” she muttered as she clambered down from her horse. The dress she wore was of a sombre, dark grey. Cairhienin cut, but in Shinowa colours. Verin had picked it out for her, but getting the woman into it had required quite a bit of persuading, even for the Aes Sedai.

“Think of it as pretending,” Rand said quietly. “I’m no lord, but I’ll try to act the part if that’s what is needed to get closer to Fain and the Horn. Besides, she’s not totally wrong. Having a fighter inside who the Cairhienin think is just a servant could be a great help if it turns out to be a trap.”

“I know,” Areku said glumly. “I just hate being in a dress. All my life I’ve wanted to be a soldier. Nothing more, nothing less. It hasn’t been easy winning my place, but I’ve done it. Now?” She shook her head. “The rest of my column won’t soon forget seeing me like this.”

Privately Rand had to agree that the dress did not suit her. Well-muscled, with a very modest bust, and a mostly-shaven head; she had looked exotic, impressive and, yes, quite attractive in her armoured uniform. In that dress she looked a little silly.

“It looks quite pretty on you,” he lied politely.

Her dark eyes narrowed. “Now there’s a lordly courtesy.”

Rand gave a chagrined smile. “Okay. More honestly,  _ you _ are quite pretty, but the dress doesn’t suit you. The armour just seems more ... you, somehow.”

She gave a soft grunt. “Well. Thanks.”

Areku wasn’t the only unhappy woman in their company. Anna had been assigned the role of Rand’s maid, a plain brown dress to suit the role, and a selection of hidden knives to hide on her person. She had been five feet of stocky, short-haired, and surprisingly pretty glowers ever since. She wasn’t doing a very good job of acting the servant. None of the servants Rand had seen in Fal Dara or here in Cairhien ever glared at their “masters” like that. He very conscientiously refrained from teasing her over it.

While the women would provide support in case of a fight, it would be for Hurin, also posing as Ingtar’s bodyservant, to sniff out the Darkfriends and Trollocs if he could; the Horn of Valere should not be far from them. He and Loial exchanged words as they dismounted. Perrin had been left behind with the other half of Ingtar’s soldiers, in part because they had no ready excuse to smuggle him in, and in part because his eyes would attract too much attention.

Every one of them had to be there for a purpose, Verin had said. An escort was necessary for dignity in Cairhienin eyes, but more than ten would seem suspicious. Rand was there because he had received the invitation. Ingtar had come to lend the prestige of his title, while Loial was there because Ogier were sought after in the upper reaches of the Cairhienin nobility. And the others were there because no Lord would be seen without at least a few attendants.

When Rand had asked Verin why she and Tomas were there, she had only smiled and said, “To keep the rest of you out of trouble.” But later she had taken him aside and told him that there was a Red Sister in the city. She had cautioned him to avoid any “displays” while they were here, and ignored Rand’s glowers.  _ I will not be used _ .

As they mounted the stairs, Anna muttered, “I’m warning you, Rand. One ‘fetch me this’, or ‘hold my cloak, minion’ and I will bust your nose for you, just you see if I don’t.”

Rand grinned at her but Verin was less amused. “A servant,” the Aes Sedai said, “should not walk at her master’s side but follow at least a full step behind if she does not want to be confused with something else. A servant can also go many places another cannot, and many nobles will not even see her. You three will blend into the walls as easily as a cloaked Warder would. You know your tasks.”

Anna’s lips tightened, but she fell back to heel Rand. He turned his head to give her an apologetic smile.

“Be quiet now.” Ingtar put in. They were approaching the doors, where half a dozen guards stood with the Tree and Crown of House Damodred on their chests, and an equal number of men in dark green livery with Tree and Crown on the sleeve.

Taking a deep breath, Rand proffered the invitation. “I am Lord Rand of House al’Thor,” he said all in a rush, to get it over with. “And these are my guests. Verin Aes Sedai of the Brown Ajah. Tomas Gaidin. Lord Ingtar of House Shinowa, in Shienar. Loial, son of Arent son of Halan, from Stedding Shangtai.” Loial had asked that his  _ stedding _ be left out of it, but Verin insisted they needed every bit of formality they could offer.

The servant who had reached for the invitation with a perfunctory bow gave a little jerk at each additional name; his eyes popped at Verin’s. In a strangled voice he said, “Be welcome in House Damodred, my lords. Be welcome, Aes Sedai. Be welcome, friend Ogier.” He waved the other servants to open the doors wide, and bowed Rand and the others inside, where he hurriedly passed the invitation to another liveried man and whispered in his ear.

This man had the Tree and Crown large on the chest of his green coat. “Aes Sedai,” he said using his long staff to make a bow, almost bending his head to his knees, to each of them in turn. “My lords. Friend Ogier. I am called Ashin. Please to follow me.”

The outer hall held only servants, but Ashin led them to a great room filled with nobles, with a juggler performing at one end and tumblers at the other. Voices and music coming from elsewhere said these were not the only guests, or the only entertainments. The nobles stood in twos, and threes and fours, sometimes men and women together, sometimes only one or the other, always with careful space between so no-one could overhear what was said. The guests wore the dark Cairhienin colours, each with bright stripes at least halfway down his or her chest, and some had them all the way to their waists. The women had their hair piled high in elaborate towers of curls, every one different, and their dark skirts were so wide they would have had to turn sideways to pass through any doorway narrower than those of the manor. None of the men had the shaved heads of soldiers—they all wore dark velvet hats over long hair, some shaped like bells, others flat—and as with the women, lace ruffles like dark ivory almost hid their hands.

Ashin rapped his staff and announced them in a loud voice, Verin first.

They drew every eye. Verin wore her brown-fringed shawl, embroidered in grape vines; the announcement of an Aes Sedai sent a murmur through the lords and ladies, and made the juggler drop one of his hoops, though no-one was watching him any longer. Loial received almost as many looks, even before Ashin spoke his name. Despite the silver embroidery on collar and sleeves, the otherwise unrelieved black of Rand’s coat made him seem almost stark beside the Cairhienin, and his and Ingtar’s swords drew many glances. None of the lords appeared to be armed. Rand heard the words “heron-mark blade” more than once. Some of the glances he was receiving looked like frowns; he suspected they came from men or women he had insulted by burning their invitations.

A slim, handsome man approached. He had long, greying hair, and multihued stripes crossed the front of his deep grey coat from his neck almost to the hem just above his knees. He was extremely tall for a Cairhienin, no more than half a head shorter than Rand, and he had a way of standing that made him seem even taller, with his chin up so he seemed to be looking down at everyone else. His eyes were black pebbles. He looked warily at Verin, though.

“Grace honours me with your presence, Aes Sedai.” Barthanes Damodred’s voice was deep and sure. His gaze swept across the others. “I did not expect so distinguished a company. Lord Ingtar. Friend Ogier.” His bow to each was little more than a nod of the head; Barthanes knew exactly how powerful he was. “And you, my young Lord Rand. You excite much comment in the city, and in the Houses. Perhaps we will have a chance to talk this night.” His tone said that he would not miss it if the chance never came, that he had not been excited to any comment, but his eyes slid a fraction before he caught them, to Ingtar and Loial, and to Verin. “Be welcome.” He let himself be drawn away by a handsome woman in a dark dress with red, yellow and silver stripes to her knees who laid a beringed hand buried in lace on his arm, but his gaze drifted back to Rand as he walked away.

The murmur of conversation picked up once more, and the juggler spun his hoops again in a narrow loop that almost reached the worked plaster ceiling, a good twenty feet or more up. The tumblers had never stopped; a woman leaped into the air from the cupped hands of one of her compatriots, her oiled skin shining golden in the light of a hundred lamps as she spun, and landed on her feet on the hands of a man who was already standing atop another’s shoulders. He lifted her up on outstretched arms as the man below raised him in the same way, and she spread her arms as if for applause. None of the Cairhienin seemed to notice.

Rand put his hands together lightly, but it was a soft and lonely sound and he soon stopped, feeling embarrassed. Verin and Ingtar drifted away into the crowd. The Shienaran received a few wary looks; some looked at the Aes Sedai with wide eyes, others with the worried frowns of those finding a rabid wolf within arm’s reach. The latter came from men more often than women, and some of the women spoke to her. Tomas, heeling his Aes Sedai, eyed all of the guests with equal suspicion.

Rand realized that Anna, Areku and Hurin had already disappeared to the kitchens, where all the servants who had come with the guests would be gathering until sent for. He hoped they would not have trouble sneaking away.

Loial bent down to speak for his ear alone. “Rand, there is a Waygate nearby. I can feel it.”

“You mean this was an Ogier grove?” Rand said softly, and Loial nodded.

“Stedding Tsofu had not been found again when it was planted, or the Ogier who helped build Al’cair’rahienallen would not have needed a grove to remind them of the  _ stedding _ . This was all forest when I came through Cairhien before, and belonged to the Queen.”

“Barthanes probably took it away in some plot.” Rand looked around the room nervously. Everyone was still talking, but more than a few were watching the Ogier and him. He could not see Ingtar. Verin stood at the centre of a knot of women. “I wish we could stay together.”

“Verin says not, Rand. She says it would make them all suspicious and angry, thinking we were holding ourselves aloof. We have to allay suspicion until Hurin finds whatever he finds.”

“I heard what she said as well as you, Loial. But I still say, if Barthanes is a Darkfriend, then he must know why we’re here. Going off by ourselves is just asking to be knocked on the head. Or worse”

“Verin says he won’t do anything until he finds out whether he can make use of us. Just do what she told us, Rand. Aes Sedai know what they are about.” Loial walked into the crowd, gathering a circle of lords and ladies before he had gone ten steps.

Others started toward Rand, now that he was alone, but he turned in the other direction and hurried away.  _ Aes Sedai may know what they’re about, but I wish I did. I don’t like this. Light, but I wish I knew if she was telling the truth. Aes Sedai never lie, but the truth you hear may not be the truth you think it is. The things they told me in Fal Dara were definitely lies, after all _ .

He kept moving to avoid talking with the nobles. There were many other rooms, all filled with lords and ladies, all with entertainers: three different gleemen in their cloaks, more jugglers and tumblers, and musicians playing flutes, bitterns, dulcimers, and lutes, plus five different sizes of fiddle, six kinds of horn, straight or curved or curled, and ten sizes of drum from tambour to kettle. He gave some of the horn players a second look, those with curled horns, but the instruments were all plain brass.

_ They wouldn’t have the Horn of Valere out here, fool _ , he thought.  _ Not unless Barthanes means to have dead heroes come as part of the entertainment _ .

There was even a bard in silver-worked Tairen boots and a yellow coat, strolling through the rooms plucking his harp and sometimes stopping to declaim in High Chant. He glared contemptuously at the gleemen and did not linger in the rooms where they were, but Rand saw little difference between him and them except for their clothes.

Suddenly Barthanes was walking by Rand’s side. A liveried servant immediately offered his silver tray with a bow. Barthanes took a blown-glass goblet of wine. Walking backwards ahead of them still bowing, the servant held the tray toward Rand until Rand shook his head, then melted into the crowd.

“You seem restless,” Barthanes said, sipping.

“I like to walk.” Rand wondered how to follow Verin’s advice, and remembering what she had said about his visit to the Amyrlin, he settled into Cat Crosses the Courtyard. He knew no more arrogant way to walk than that. Barthanes’ mouth tightened, and Rand thought perhaps the lord found it too arrogant, but Verin’s advice was all he had to go by, so he did not stop. To take some of the edge off, he said pleasantly, “This is a fine party. You have many friends, and I’ve never seen so many entertainers.”

“Many friends,” Barthanes agreed. “You can tell Galldria how many, and who. Some of the names might surprise her. You will recall Lady Michaine Maravin I am sure.” He waved a graceful hand in the direction of a beautiful, mature woman whose dark dress had stripes of colour across the front, falling to below her waist. She was chatting with a collection of noblemen, and at her side stood a bored-looking girl with the exact same dress, who Rand took for her daughter. He had gotten a letter from a Lady Maravin, and burned it, of course. He recalled Hurin saying something about Queen Galldria’s late husband having been a member of that House.

“I have never met Lady Maravin. Or the Queen, Lord Barthanes, and I don’t expect I ever will,” Rand said.

“Of course. You just happened to be in that flyspeck village. You were not checking on the progress of retrieving that statue. A great undertaking, that.”

“Yes.” He had begun thinking of Verin again, wishing she had given him some advice on how to talk with a man who assumed he was lying. He added without thinking, “It’s dangerous to meddle with things from the Age of Legends if you don’t know what you are doing.”

Barthanes peered into his wine, musing as if Rand had just said something profound. “Are you saying you do not support Galldria in this?” he asked finally.

“I told you, I’ve never met the Queen.”

“Yes, of course. I did not know Andormen played at the Great Game so well. We do not see many here in Cairhien.”

Rand took a deep breath to stop from telling the man angrily that he was not playing their Game. “There are many grain barges from Andor in the river.”

“Merchants and traders. Who notices such as they? As well notice the beetles on the leaves.” Barthanes’ voice carried equal contempt for both beetles and merchants, but once again he frowned as if Rand had hinted at something. “Not many men travel in company with Aes Sedai. You seem too young to be a Warder.”

“I am not a Warder,” Rand said, and grimaced.  _ Light forbid. Aes Sedai are bad enough without that _ .

Barthanes was studying Rand’s face almost openly. “Young. Young to carry a heron-mark blade.”

“I am less than a year old,” Rand said automatically, and immediately wished he had it back. It sounded foolish, to his ear, but Verin had said act as he had with the Amyrlin Seat, and that was the answer Lan had given him. A Borderman considered the day he was given his sword to be his nameday.

“So. An Andorman, and yet Borderland-trained. Or is it Warder-trained?” Barthanes’ eyes narrowed, studying Rand. “I understand Morgase has only one son. Named Gawyn, I have heard. You must be much like him in age.”

“I have met him,” Rand said cautiously.

“Those eyes. That hair. I have heard the Andoran royal line has almost Aiel colouring in their hair and eyes.”

Rand stumbled, though the floor was smooth marble. “I’m not Aiel, Lord Barthanes, and I’m not of the royal line, either.”

“As you say. You have given me much to think on. I believe we may find common ground when we talk again.” Barthanes nodded and raised his glass in a small salute, then turned to speak to a thin, grey-haired man with many stripes of white, black and gold down his coat.

Rand shook his head and moved on, away from more conversation. It had been bad enough talking to one Cairhienin lord; he did not want to risk two. Barthanes appeared to find deep meanings in the most trivial comments. Rand realized he had just now learned enough of  _ Daes Dae’mar _ to know he had no idea at all how it was played.  _ Hurin, find something fast, so we can get out of here. These people are crazy _ .

And then he entered another room, and the gleeman at the end of it, strumming his harp and reciting a tale from  _ The Great Hunt of the Horn _ , was Thom Merrilin. Rand stopped dead. Thom did not seem to see him, though the gleeman’s gaze passed over him twice. It seemed that Thom had meant what he said. A clean break. It was for the best.

Rand turned to go, but a pretty woman stepped smoothly in front of him and put a hand on his chest, the lace falling back from a soft wrist. Her head did not quite come to his shoulder, but her tall array of dark curls easily reached as high as his eyes. The high neck of her gown put lace ruffles under her chin, and stripes covered the front of her dark blue dress below her breasts. “I am Alaine Chuliandred, and you are the famous Rand al’Thor. In Barthanes’ own manor, I suppose he has the right to speak to you first, but we are all fascinated by what we hear of you. I even hear that you play the flute. Can it be true?”

“I play the flute.”  _ How did she ...? Caldevwin. Light, everybody does hear everything in Cairhien _ . “If you will excuse—”

“I have heard that some outland lords play music, but I never believed it. I would like very much to hear you play. Perhaps you will talk with me, of this and that. Barthanes seemed to find your conversation fascinating. My husband spends his days sampling his own vineyards, and leaves me quite alone. He is never there to talk with me.”

“You must miss him,” Rand said, trying to edge around her and her wide skirts. She gave a tinkling laugh as if he had said the funniest thing in the world.

Another woman sidled in beside the first, and another hand was laid on his chest. She wore as many stripes as Alaine, and they were of an age, a good ten years older than he. “Do you think to keep him to yourself, Alaine?” The two women smiled at each other while their eyes threw daggers. The second turned her smile on Rand. “I am Belevaere Osiellin. Are all Andormen so tall? And so handsome?”

He cleared his throat. “Ah ... some are as tall. Pardon me, but if you will—”

“I saw you talking with Barthanes. They say you know Galldria, as well. You must come to see me, and talk. My husband is visiting our estates in the south.”

“You have the subtlety of a tavern wench,” Alaine hissed at her, and immediately was smiling up at Rand. “She has no polish. No man could like a woman with a manner so rough. Bring your flute to my manor, and we will talk. Perhaps you will teach me to play?”

“What Alaine thinks of as subtlety,” Belevaere said sweetly, “is but lack of courage. A man who wears a heron-mark sword must be brave. That truly is a heron-mark blade, is it not?”

Wide-eyed, Rand tried backing away from them.  _ Blood and ashes. I thought Cairhienin were a repressed and serious lot _ . “If you will just excuse me, I—” They followed step for step until his back hit the wall; the width of their skirts together made another wall in front of him.

He jumped as a third woman crowded in beside the other two, her skirts joining theirs to the wall on that side, blocking the polished wooden door he had been about to escape through. She was older than they, but just as pretty, with an amused smile that did not lessen the sharpness of her eyes. She wore half again as many stripes as Alaine and Belevaere; they made tiny curtsies and glared at her sullenly.

“Are these two spiders trying to toil you in their webs?” The older woman laughed. “Half the time they tangle themselves more firmly than anyone else. Come with me, my fine young Andoran, and I will tell you some of the troubles they would give you. For one thing, I have no husband to worry about. Husbands always make trouble.”

Over Alaine’s head he could see Thom, straightening from a bow to no applause or notice whatsoever. With a grimace the gleeman snatched a goblet from the tray of a startled servant. He considered evading the women’s hints by seeking out the gleeman but was wary of being seen with him, of dragging him back into Rand’s troubles. Enough friends had suffered for their involvement already.

“Discretion works well when it comes to husbands,” Rand said. He’d known other men’s wives before. He liked to tell himself that any blame for the affairs should belong to the wayward spouse; the lover had sworn no vows.

“Discretion works well when it comes to most things,” agreed the elder of the three. “I am Breane Taborwin by the way.”

“Rand al’Thor. Pleased to meet you.”

“Yes, we know. There has been much talk of the bold young outland Lord who visits our city. Many wonder why you have come, and what it will mean for Queen Galldria’s reign.”

Rand shook his head vigorously. “I’d rather it meant nothing. If I had my way Cairhien would never even know I’d been here.”

“Oh, that is such a relief to hear,” purred Alaine, fingers trailing lightly along his chest.

Belevaere shot her an annoyed look. “Oh, but I think you will leave quite the impression, my lord,” she said, turning an eager smile on Rand.

He let out a small sigh.  _ Well, I’m supposed to be fitting in. And from the way they are going on it seems this sort of thing is common at these parties. I’d best do my part _ . The problem, again, was one of numbers. How was he supposed to avoid offending one or the other? He could think of one solution. Not very subtle, not very  _ Daes Dae’mar _ , but maybe it would work. Who knew what they would read into it though.

“Alright,” he said, resolved now. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

Breane raised an eyebrow at him as he took her by the elbow and steered her out of the way of the door. She came with him when he left though, and the other two ladies trailed along after them.

Inside was a richly furnished sitting room, unoccupied save for them. The soft carpets and panelled walls were lit by half a dozen mirrored stand lamps. Several comfortable-looking sofas, low tables and drinkstands were arranged as though for discreet conversation.

He left Breane in the middle of the room and went to latch the door. Alaine stood near it, watching him with pursed lips and raised brows.

“What  _ are _ you about,” she said as he reached past her to work the latch.

“Just trying to give you what you wanted,” he said honestly. Then he cupped her face in his hands and leaned down to kiss her.

Her lips were lax beneath his at first, but soon she was kissing him back.

Conscious of the other women who wanted his attention, Rand broke the kiss after a scant few heartbeats and turned to Belevaere.

She looked much like Alaine, but with a rounder face and a bolder smile. That smile didn’t completely hide her shock when he turned from her flushed rival and bent to kiss her, too. He heard Alaine gasp behind him.

“Well, well,” said Breane. “You  _ are _ a bold one.”

He reached an arm around Alaine and pulled her into his embrace right alongside Belevaere. The two Cairhienin ladies glared at each other as Rand tried to alternate kisses between them.

“There’s no need to fight, you two,” he murmured. “You’re both beautiful, and I’ll make it my business to see you both get your satisfaction.”

“That’s hardly ...” Alaine tried to say between kisses.

“I don’t care what she ...” Belevaere began to say, before he captured her lips and interrupted her.

Soon their protests had dwindled to vexed murmurs, issued as he turned from one to the other and silenced when he turned back. He heard Breane laughing softly.

He tried to fondle their bottoms but found himself defeated by their strange dresses. It wasn’t all fabric that gave the lower halves those bell-like shapes; there was some kind of wooden frame underneath.

Since Alaine had been the first to approach him, he felt it was only fair to attend to her first. He gave Belevaere a last, lingering kiss before taking the other woman by the hand and leading her to a low, warmly polished table. There he sat her down, knelt before her and began pushing up the many layers of her skirts.

“Aren’t you going to show me your flute first?” laughed Alaine.

Rand paused for a moment, then shrugged. “As you wish.” He unbuckled his belt and set his sword aside as the three ladies watched and tittered. Despite everything, he didn’t find himself feeling nervous at all. Rand had seen enough cocks in his life to know he was bigger than average. When he pushed his breeches down over his waist and freed his hardening length, a trio of flattering gasps sounded.

“I’m sure you’ve made many a woman sing with that instrument,” said Alaine with a laugh.

“Tall and strong indeed,” murmured Belevaere.

“Grace has favoured you. That might test even my limits,” mused Breane.

Rand blushed, grinning widely. He set back to working on Alaine’s dress, reaching and pulling down her lacy drawers to expose her neatly-groomed sex. Then he knelt down and kissed it firmly.

“Such an attentive man,” gasped Alaine. “If only my drunkard of a husband would attend to his duties so diligently.” Urged on by her words, Rand started using his tongue on her, just the way Marin had taught him.

He couldn’t attend to her long though. Belevaere started tutting in frustration, and since he was looking to avoid getting into even more trouble with the Houses he was forced to rise and turn his attention to her. Thankfully, Breane seemed content to just watch the whole thing, smiling over from the sofa she had perched herself on. He didn’t know how he would go about pleasing all three at once. It seemed impossible to imagine.

Belevaere avoided his kisses now that Alaine’s juices were on his lips. So, struck by a sudden inspiration, he turned her around and picked her up by the waist. It was easy. All three of the Cairhienin ladies were short and slender. A whoop of surprise sounded from the Osiellin woman as he carried her to the narrow table, positioned her above her Chuliandred countrywoman and lowered her back to her feet.

“What do you plan Andoran?” she laughed. “If it’s what I suspect you are beyond bold.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted me to be?” He lifted her skirts and lowered her drawers. The hoops that helped hold the dress’ shape vexed him, but Belevaere seemed to expect that. She obligingly leant forward, pushing her pale bottom back towards him and presenting her glistening sex.

Rand positioned himself behind her. He now had easy access to both women’s pussies.

“I do not like you looking down at me like this Belevaere,” sniffed Alaine, as she lay on the table with the other woman leaning over her, supporting her weight with hands on either side of her head.

“I would think you were used to it by now, Alaine,” sighed Belevaere mockingly.

Rand moved quickly to douse that fire. He took hold of his cock and guided it to Belevaere’s wet hole, then wasted no time before pushing it in. Her cry drowned out Alaine’s response to her barb.

“Ha! For all your arrogance you moan like a Foregate tavern wench,” crowed Alaine. “What would Amondrid think if he could hear you now?”

Rand gave her several long thrusts before pulling out. Swiftly he located Alaine’s pussy amidst the tangle of spread legs, exposed crevices, ruffled skirts and bizarre wooden hoops. He guided himself to it and rammed home.

It was Alaine’s turn to cry out, and Belevaere’s turn to crow. “A tavern wench is it? You bark like a dog in heat. Poor Doressin must be appalled at how far beneath him he married.”

Increasingly alarmed, Rand gave her an equal number of hard strokes before switching back to the other woman. He alternated between them, fucking them hard, not even really savouring the feel of their bodies as he tried to disarm the situation. He didn’t really like doing it with strangers. Well, he did, he supposed; how not? But he found it nowhere near as wonderful as when it was with someone he knew and cared about. And this was especially unsatisfying.

“I would wager my estates at Maerone that your loose—UH!” He went back to Belevaere before she could continue.

Once Alaine had caught her breath she scoffed anew, “Do you think the cut of that dress makes them look big—AH!”

_ Blood and ashes _ , thought Rand.  _ I don’t know how long I can keep this up _ .

He took it for progress when moans gradually replaced taunts from the warring ladies.

He was giving Alaine her fiftieth session when she suddenly clenched herself around his cock and moaned even louder than normal. He knew the meaning and didn’t linger inside her, but transferred his cock to Belevaere and increased his pace even more, hoping to forestall whatever pithy comment she would make about the other woman.

It worked, thank the Light. Alaine was too busy moaning incoherently—and Belevaere too busy gasping for breath—to continue their feud. Under his relentless pounding the second lady soon stiffened and cried out as well. Rand let his head fall back and breathed a sigh of relief at the sound.

Under the throes of her orgasm, Belevaere’s arms gave out and she collapsed to lay against Alaine, breast to breast. He wasn’t sure if it was happenstance or design that brought their lips together, but neither woman pulled away. In fact, they wrapped their arms around each other as they kissed languidly.

Breane’s laughter was a loud, throaty thing.

“The mystery is solved,” she said, with an amused smile. “You have been sent to play peacemaker between the warring factions. Is it to be Galldria and Barthanes next?” For the first time he realised she had taken off her underwear. Her hand openly toyed with the darkly furred folds of her sex as she leaned back on the sofa.

For all their feuding, her joke—he hoped it was a joke—brought matching, breathless laughter from the two women on the table.

Rand pulled his slick cock out of Belevaere and tried to catch his breath. “I hope not,” he said honestly as he sank onto the nearby sofa.

Breane laughed again. She rose from her own perch and crossed the room to sit beside him.

“Young and strong as you are, could it be you have reached the limits of your stamina?” she asked, brushing his lips with hers, and his hard cock with her slick fingers. He twitched beneath her touch and kissed her back, harder. “Or perhaps not. No matter. A reward for you, my young Lord, for a most amusing show.”

Breane slid from the sofa to kneel between Rand’s legs. She was pale skinned and dark-haired, like most Cairhienin noblewomen, maturely beautiful with a hard confidence in her slightly slanted eyes. The sight of her kneeling before him and taking his cock into her mouth dispelled Rand’s nervousness and woke his lust. She held his gaze as she engulfed as much of his length as she could, then closed her eyes and started bobbing her head up and down.

As thrilling as the feel of her mouth on his manhood was, that tower of carefully-curled hair kept batting distractingly against his chest. Rand let his eyes drift shut in order to savour Breane’s attentions. He was dimly aware of the other ladies taking seats to either side of him as they watched Breane work.

After his efforts with the other two he doubted he would have lasted long, even if Breane was not as skilled as she was. And she was, indeed, skilled. She cupped his balls gently in one hand as the other worked his shaft firmly; all the while her tongue licked along his most sensitive places. It was too much for Rand. Slumped on the sofa, he moaned loudly as he began spurting in her mouth.

“Swallowing it all, Lady Breane?” said Alaine. “How decadent.”

Belevaere sniffed. “I would have been more impressed if she had managed to fit the whole length inside. But still, a worthy showing.” Rude as their words were, their tones were at least a little mellower than before.

“Are all Cairhienin parties like this?” Rand asked drowsily.

“Hardly,” drawled Alaine.

Breane wiped her mouth with a kerchief. “This is actually timid in comparison to some affairs I have heard tell of. Not that I was ever present for any of those, naturally. No more than I was here.”

The other two ladies, if they could really be called that, laughed softly.

“How long have we been in here?” asked Alaine.

Belevaere pursed her lips. “Too long.” She rose and started fixing her clothes.

They all took her example. Rand put himself away and fetched his sword from the carpet, buckling it on again.

Belevaere and Alaine located a small mirror on the mantelpiece and jostled each other as they tried to put their elaborate towers of hair back in order. He doubted he’d made any peace between them, no matter what Breane had said, but at least they didn’t seem to hold any enmity towards him. He hoped the others were managing to blend in as well, and that Hurin had managed to track down their quarry.


	17. A Sharp Cadenza

CHAPTER 40: A Sharp Cadenza

The first light of morning was still a long way off when Thom Merrilin found himself trudging back to The Bunch of Grapes. Even where the halls and taverns lay thickest, there was a brief time when the Foregate lay quiet, gathering its breath. In his present mood, Thom would not have noticed if the empty street had been on fire.

Some of Barthanes’ guests had insisted on keeping him long after most had gone, long after Barthanes had taken himself to bed. It had been his own fault for leaving  _ The Great Hunt of the Horn _ , changing to the sort of tales he told and songs he sang in the villages,  _ Mara and the Three Foolish Kings _ and  _ How Susa Tamed Jain Farstrider _ and stories of  _ Anla the Wise Councillor _ . He had meant the choices to be a private comment on their stupidity, never dreaming any of them might listen, much less be intrigued. Intrigued in a way. They had demanded more of the same, but they had laughed in the wrong places, at the wrong things. They had laughed at him, too, apparently thinking he would not notice, or else that a full purse stuffed in his pocket would heal any wounds. He had almost thrown it away twice already.

The heavy purse burning his pocket and pride was not the only reason for his mood, nor even the nobles’ contempt. They had asked questions about Rand, not even bothering to be subtle with a mere gleeman. Why was Rand in Cairhien? Why had an Andoran lord taken him, a gleeman, aside? Too many questions. He was not sure his answers had been clever enough. His reflexes for the Great Game were rusty. The boy’s warning lingered in his mind, so he had made what excuses he could and left the party while several guests still lingered.

Arriving at The Bunch of Grapes he strode through the common room, empty as it seldom was, and took the steps two at a time. At least, he tried to; his right leg did not bend well, and he nearly fell. Muttering to himself, he climbed the rest of the way at a slower pace, and opened the door to his room softly, so as not to wake Dena.

Despite himself, he smiled when he saw her lying on the bed with her face turned to the wall, still in her dress.  _ Fell asleep waiting for me. Fool girl _ . But it was a kindly thought; he was not sure there was anything she would do that he would not forgive or excuse. Deciding on the spur of the moment that tonight was the night he’d let her perform for the first time, he lowered his harp case to the floor and put a hand on her shoulder, to wake her and tell her.

She rolled limply onto her back and for a horrifying moment he thought she was dead. But then she mumbled incoherently and stretched like a little cat.

“Thom,” she said sleepily, “Is that you?” She rubbed at her eyes.

“Of course it’s me, lass. Who else?” He was getting old. Rand had him jumping at shadows.

He had only the creaking of the door for warning. He spun, knives coming out of his sleeves and into his hands with practiced ease.

A fat, balding man with a dagger in his hand led the way, moving with surprising quiet for one of his bulk; behind him a heavily-muscled man with scars on his face, similarly armed.

The paused when they saw Thom armed, and studied him with the careful, narrowed eyes of experienced killers. Not experienced enough though. They saw only a white-haired old man with a bad leg and a tattered gleeman’s cloak. They didn’t see what he had been, and the things he had done.

“Put those nail-trimmers away old man,” said the muscular one, “before you hurt yourself.”

“We just want to ask you a few question,” said the fat one, with what he imagined was a friendly smile.

Dena sat up in the bed. She frowned at the intruders, and at Thom, too. “Who are these men, Thom?”

Thom had already made his mind up, but if he had not, the way they looked at Dena—so young and pretty, with her hair tousled from sleep—would have been enough to decide him. The fat one licked his lips and in so doing drew Thom’s focus.

“Would-be assassins, dear. Nothing you need concern yourself over,” he said smoothly.

The men turned incredulous looks his way and the first of his blades took the throat of the fat man; he stumbled back, blood bubbling around his clutching fingers as he tried to cry out.

Spinning on his bad leg threw Thom’s other blade off, though; the knife stuck in the right shoulder of the muscled intruder. The big man’s knife dropped from a hand that suddenly would not do what he wanted; he gasped once and lumbered for the door.

Before he could take a second step, Thom produced another knife and slashed him across the back of his leg. The big man yelled and stumbled, and Thom seized a handful of greasy hair, slamming his face against the wall beside the door; the man screamed again as the knife hilt sticking out of his shoulder hit the door.

Thom thrust the blade in his hand to within an inch of the man’s dark eye. The scars on the big man’s face gave him a hard look, but he stared at the point without blinking and did not move a muscle. The fat man, lying half in the wardrobe, kicked a last kick and was still.

A wide-eyed Dena muffled a scream behind her hand.

“Before I kill you,” Thom whispered in the man’s ear, “tell me. Why?” His voice was quiet, numb.

“The Great Game,” the man said quickly. His accent was of the streets, and his clothes as well but they were a shade too fine, too unworn; he had more coin to spend than any Foregater should. “Nothing against you personal, you see? It is just the Game.”

“The Game? I’m not mixed up in  _ Daes Dae’mar _ ! Who would want to kill me for the Great Game?” The man hesitated. Thom moved his blade closer. If the fellow blinked, his eyelashes would brush the point. “Who?”

“Barthanes,” came the hoarse answer. “Lord Barthanes. We would not have killed you. Barthanes wants information. We just wanted to find out what you know. There can be gold in it for you. A nice, fat golden crown for what you know. Maybe two.”

“Liar! I was in Barthanes’ manor last night, as close to him as I am to you. If he wanted anything of me, I’d never have left alive.”

“I tell you, we have been looking for you, or anyone who knows about this Andoran lord, for days. I never heard your name until last night, downstairs. Lord Barthanes is generous. It could be five crowns.”

The man tried to pull his head away from the knife in Thom’s hand, and Thom pushed him harder against the wall. “What Andoran lord?” But he knew. The Light help him, he knew.

“Rand. Of House al’Thor. Tall. Young. A blademaster, or at least he wears the sword. I know he came to see you. Him and an Ogier, and you talked. Tell me what you know. I might even throw in a crown or two, myself.”

“You fool,” Thom breathed. “The boy’s a shepherd.” A shepherd in a fancy coat, with Aes Sedai around him like bees around honeyroses. “Just a shepherd.”  _ And if I hadn’t heeded his warning? If I hadn’t left the party early. What would have happened if these men came to my room while Dena was alone and asleep?  _ He felt cold all over, cold inside. He tightened his grip in the man’s hair.

“Wait! Wait! You can make more than any five crowns, or even ten. A hundred, more like. Every House wants to know about this Rand al’Thor. Two or three have approached me. With what you know, and my knowing who wants to know it, we could both fill our pockets. And there has been a woman, a lady, I have seen more than once while asking after him. If we can find out who she is ... why, we could sell that, too.”

“You’ve made one real mistake in it all,” Thom said.

“Mistake?” The man’s far hand was beginning to slide down toward his belt. No doubt he had another dagger there. Thom ignored it.

“You should never have threatened the girl.”

The man’s hand darted for his belt, then he gave one convulsive start as Thom’s knife went home.

Dena gasped again.

Thom let the scar-faced man fall over away from the door and stood a moment before bending tiredly to tug his blades free. He hadn’t wanted to show the girl this side of him. But perhaps it was for the best. She needed to know what he was like; she needed to know what the world was like. Dena was no sheltered princess, but she was still very young.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said. “But it was necessary.”

“I ... I understand,” she said faintly. She turned her pale face away from the bodies, unable to look at them for long. “But I think they were lying to you. I recognise these men. I don’t know their names, but I’ve seen the scarred one taking coin from Jenri. And the other ... It’s the worst kept secret in Cairhien that he works for House Riatin. For Galldria.”

“Galldria,” he said flatly.  _ What has that bloody shepherd gotten me into? What have the Aes Sedai gotten us both into? _ But it was Galldria’s men who had tried to murder him and, worse, had tried to murder Dena.

There must have been something of his thoughts on his face. Dena said sharply, “You can’t be thinking of going after the Queen! You try to kill her, and you’ll be dead before you get within a hundred feet, if you come that close!”

“No,” he said, shaking his head slowly. Much as he might like to answer this with a quiet knife or a poisoned goblet, it would be a mad risk. “No, but ...”

Before he could say more the door banged open, and he whirled with a snarl on his face.

Zera jerked back, a hand to her throat, staring at him. “I heard a ruckus ... and not the good kind.” Her eyes dropped from his face and widened as they took in the bodies of the two men, she gave a loud gasp. He looked at her inquiringly; as long as he had known her, she had never been one to go faint over blood. Hastily she stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her. “This is bad, Thom. One of those men works for Galldria. You’ll have to leave Cairhien.” Her gaze touched Dena and softened slightly. “You both will.”

“I know,” they said in unison.

Dena took a deep breath and hopped from the bed. She avoided looking down as she stepped nimbly over the corpse on the floor and went to fetch her belongings and the saddlebags he had bought her.

As Thom was attending to his own packing a roar came from the city walls, as if half of Cairhien were shouting. Frowning, Thom peered from his window. Beyond the top of the grey walls above the rooftops of the Foregate, a thick column of smoke was rising into the sky. Far beyond the walls. Beside the first black pillar, a few grey tendrils quickly grew into another, and more wisps appeared further on. He estimated the distance and took a deep breath.

“Perhaps you had better think about leaving, too, Zera. It looks as if someone is firing the granaries.”

“I have lived through riots before,” she said. “I’ll just have to hire a few extra shoulder-thumpers. Safe journeys you two.” She bustled from the room, muttering about the mess.

Thom fetched his third spare coin purse from behind the wardrobe and went to gather the fourth from its hiding place. You could never be too careful. He had learned that years ago, but somehow in Dena’s sweet company he had forgotten. And it had almost cost them both dearly.  _ Never again _ .

“Where will we go, Thom?” the girl asked as she carefully packed her barely-used harp. “I think downriver would be best. It’s faster, assuming we can find a trustworthy captain.”

Thom found himself moved, and only then realised he had been half-expecting her to turn away from him after what she had seen him do to those men. He smiled fondly. “That’s good thinking, lass. Down to Tear first, I’d say. And from there, well, the world awaits.”


	18. Secrets Revealed

CHAPTER 42: Secrets Revealed

The room was as oversized as everything else in the cottage. Though the Ogier of Stedding Tsofu had made a polite effort to accommodate their human visitors. Fine pewter cups and a pitcher of water waited to quench their thirst, and a covered tray proved to hide warm bread, a crock of butter and some thick slices of ham. Very thick slices, cut for an Ogier’s appetite. Rand snatched one up and bit into it happily.

Perrin stood at the foot of the bed. He was a big man, over six feet of solid muscle, but standing beside the huge Ogier bed he almost looked like a little boy.

Rand laughed. “Everything’s so big here. I feel like it’s ten years ago and I should be plotting to filch one of Mistress al’Vere’s pies.” Then he remembered.  _ Or stealing a home that wasn’t mine _ . His smile turned to a grimace.

“Anna was right,” Perrin said quietly. “The Theren is still your home, whatever your blood.”

Rand nodded gratefully.

Perrin turned his gaze from the bed to Rand. “Why did you want to talk in private?” he asked warily.

“I just wanted to ask you about something that keeps coming up.”

“Oh. I think I know what you mean.” Perrin sounded tired, and maybe a bit disappointed.

“It’s this wolfbrother thing. I keep hearing about it, and about you being a sort of sniffer. And I can’t help but notice how sharp your senses have gotten lately. Or the change in your eye colour. What’s going on, Perrin?”

His old friend let out a heavy sigh and sat on the bed, shoulders slumped. “I know your dark secret. I suppose it’s only right to tell you mine. It started after Shadar Logoth, when we met a man named Elyas ...”

Rand listened with mounting incredulity to a tale of wolves who could talk like people. And without words even, but directly into someone’s mind from any distance. But only to certain people it seemed; a strange new—or old—magic come into the world. Wolfbrothers and wolfsisters they were called, the humans who could talk to wolves. Their eyes changed colour and their senses became enhanced. It sounded incredible to him, but Perrin was far from thrilled to find himself among the wolfkin’s numbers.

“I feel like I’m becoming an animal. There are little changes, like meat tasting so much better than vegetables now. And there are big changes. Terrible changes. A murderous fury I never would have thought was in me hides in my heart, ready to pounce at any moment.”

Rand was sympathetic. He knew what it was like to fear yourself, and to worry about hurting the people you cared about. He was also a little incredulous. “You hide the fury well then, Perrin. I noticed the eyes, but I never once thought that anybody should be afraid of you going wild on them. Are you sure you’re not exaggerating?”

“I’m sure,” Perrin sighed.

“Well, if you say so,” Rand said dubiously. “Even if it’s true, though, I won’t hold it against you. I can’t, being what I am. And I like to think I wouldn’t even if I could not ... do what I can do. If this wolfbrother thing is something you’re just born with, then no-one in their right mind could blame you for being one.”  _ And me, can they not blame me? That’s different _ , he told himself, though he was hard-pressed to explain why.

“That’s nice of you to say, but you don’t understand, and I can’t explain it,” said Perrin morosely.

Rand grimaced at the echo of his own thoughts. It made so much more sense when he was saying it about himself, in the privacy of his own mind.

He sighed and took a seat beside his friend. “We’re our own worst enemies sometimes,” he mused. He patted Perrin on the shoulder. “Look, man. I don’t think you’ve changed as much, or as badly, as you seem to think. You’re still you, and you’re still my friend. Mat’s and Anna’s, too. They haven’t run screaming from you, now have they?”

Perrin grimaced. “No. But Anna ... Well, we’re still friends, but she’s seen more of the wolf side of me than you have, and she wisely decided to keep her distance.”

Rand eyed him carefully. Was he implying that he and Anna had been more than friends at some point? He refused to ask. Secrets came in many types, and that particular type of secret was no business of anyone’s but the people involved.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Rand said softly. “But I like the distance between us just fine the way it is. Nothing’s changed for me.”

“Oh.”

They sat in together in a tense silence, there on the edge of the huge bed. Perrin held his hands together, rubbing his own knuckles, not looking at Rand. He seemed frustrated, and Rand recalled that he had been travelling alone with Anna for quite some time, a distant Anna.

Rand’s heart was beating faster. He leant over and whispered in Perrin’s ear. “I could prove it, if you like. I trust you. Nothing you did could frighten me. Nothing you wanted to do, right now, to me, would make me hate you.”

Perrin clasped his hands together hard. “It’s been a long time,” he grated, nostrils flaring.

Rand smiled. “Use some of that butter first. Then you can be as wild as you want.”

The big wolfbrother let out a shuddering breath. “How do I keep letting you talk me into this?” he muttered. But for all his quibbling, he climbed from the bed, shed his coat and reached the covered tray in several quick strides.

Rand grinned and started undressing. He kicked off his boots while Perrin was removing his heavy belt and setting his axe on the wooden floor. He set his sword aside while Perrin was fishing in his trousers, his broad back turned to Rand. Coat and shirt were quickly discarded as Perrin smeared himself in the soft butter.  _ He must be dying for it _ , he thought.  _ He didn’t even have to get himself hard first _ . By the time Perrin had kicked off his boots and dropped his trousers, revealing his hairy and muscular buttocks, Rand was stark naked. When the young blacksmith turned around, he found his old friend and lover sitting cross-legged in the middle of the over-sized bed, waiting for him. Perrin’s thick cock jutted hungrily out from beneath his loose white shirt.

He took in the sight of Rand and his golden eyes took on a new gleam.

Perrin threw off his shirt as he advanced. He climbed up onto the bed, crawled towards Rand and kissed his lips passionately. More so than usual, in fact. He and Rand and Mat had been playing with each other’s bodies since they had been only children, and had thought such things only a game, but of the three Perrin had always been the most reluctant, the slowest to warm up to the fun. Now he pushed Rand back onto the soft mattress and wrapped his strong arms around his shoulders, capturing his lips and shoving his tongue into the other boy’s mouth.

Rand’s long legs were already parted from the position he had been sitting in. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to wrap them around his friend’s waist. The sight of Perrin’s thickly muscled body and the intensity of his kisses was making him hard. His growing erection pressed against the wolfbrother’s hairy belly. He could feel Perrin’s own hard cock pressing, too, but lower down.

Perrin broke their kiss and looked Rand straight in the eyes as he reached down to take hold of his slickened cock and aim it at Rand’s smooth hole.

Rand stared right back at him, meeting his inhuman wolf-like eyes openly. He felt no fear at all. “Wolfbrother, Perrin,” he whispered. “Nothing’s changed. I’m yours, take me.”

And so he did. Perrin did not break eye contact as he slid inside Rand, groaning low all the while. His thick cock filled Rand’s body well, and filled it with pleasure, too.

Perrin started slow but soon sped up, sliding in and out of Rand, breathing heavy through his nose. They kissed as the coupled at first, but as his passion mounted Perrin levered himself up, supporting himself on his thickly-muscled arms as he pounded Rand’s ass. Rand lay back and took it, rocking his hips to match Perrin’s thrusts, marvelling at his friend’s broad chest and the dark hair that coated it, gasping softly each time Perrin’s cock was pushed into him.

It occurred to him that he was often on the bottom when it was another male he found himself involved with. He had been ever since he had lost his virginity when he was young. He didn’t mind really. Actually, if he was honest, he quite liked being taken every once in a while. Depending on who it was doing the taking. What had happened with Masema before he got lost in the Portal Stone, and the nightmare that followed, those were not at all the same as this. Not at all. He reached up and stroked Perrin’s arms encouragingly as his old friend ravaged his body. He wrapped his legs around the wolfbrother’s bucking hips as though he were a woman spurring on her lover.

He almost felt a child again as they cavorted on the Ogier-made bed. Everything was too big for him, except Perrin. It was a heady feeling. He didn’t know if it was his friend’s lovemaking, being inside a  _ stedding _ , or the enchanting scale of the furnishing, but he felt more light-hearted than he had in months.

The muscles on the sides of Perrin’s neck corded. His eyes snapped open and he stared down at the other man beneath him. “Rand,” he hissed. He collapsed forward; his full weight fell upon Rand as he began spurting inside his ass. Rand wrapped his arms around Perrin’s neck and kissed him.

“Just like old times,” Rand whispered, stroking Perrin’s curly brown hair as the other youth lay in his arms, gasping for breath as his orgasm ran through him and into Rand.

Conscientious as ever, Perrin did not rest his weight on Rand for long. He pushed himself up and sat back on his heels, Rand’s legs still wrapped around him, his softening cock still nestled inside. “I needed that,” he breathed. “Burn me but I did.”

Rand smiled. “Always happy to help.”

Perrin smiled back, and opened his mouth to respond ...

The latch on the door rattled and set Rand’s heart to thumping. They would have to dress quickly ... but then the door started creeping open and in horror he realised they had forgotten to lock it. He hadn’t been planning a tryst when he brought Perrin here ...

Perrin’s yellow eyes went very wide. He froze in place as though he thought he would pass unseen if only he was still enough.

A shadowed figure stood in the open doorway. “Are you two done ye ...” a familiar voice began to say, then cut off with a sharp gasp.

“Would you like some of this wine, Anna? It’s very good. I didn’t know the Ogier had such fine vineyards,” called Ingtar, from down the hall.

“No thank you, Lord Ingtar,” squeaked Anna. Her eyes darted to the common room where Loial and Shienarans waited, then back to the bedroom and its shockingly naked inhabitants.

“Lord Ingtar is right. I’ve never tasted anything so good,” called Hurin.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she called, and hopped into the room, slamming the door shut behind her, setting the latch, and pressing her back to the planks as though afraid someone might try to break it down. Her cheeks were uncharacteristically red and her brown eyes seemed suddenly huge.

“What ... what ... I don’t,” Anna stared at Rand and Perrin. She looked as if she had been poleaxed.

Rand blushed hot. It was small wonder Anna was at a loss for words, considering the sight she had been ambushed with. He lay there as naked as a newborn, pale and flushed, with his engorged and unattended cock pushing up against his belly. Between his spread legs knelt Perrin, equally naked, sweat darkening the hair on head and body both, and his cock only now slipping out from between Rand’s cheeks.

“Anna,” Perrin breathed. Then he said no more. If anything, he looked even more stunned than she did.

“W-why ... why are you n-naked?” Anna said. She shook her head slowly. Her eyes were unfocused.

Perrin shook his head in time with her and did not answer.

Rand’s mouth was very dry. Anna had been his friend for as long as he could remember, as long as Mat or Perrin. But they had never tried to involve her in this type of play. She was a girl, and girls were inherently more chaste than boys, as befitted the better sex.

He disentangled himself from Perrin and scrambled into a sitting position. His movement brought Anna’s stunned gaze his way. Her eyes drifted down his body to where his hard cock strained upwards from its red-thatched roots. Her blush darkened so much that her cheeks were almost purple.

“I’m sorry,” Rand gasped. “I didn’t think to lock the door. You weren’t supposed to see this.”

“See what?” she managed.

“Uh ... us. Like this.”

She shook her head some more. “But why are you ... I mean ... you’re boys ... and ... I didn’t know boys ... did stuff, like this.” She tore her gaze away from their nakedness. “Has this happened before?”

Perrin hung his head. His cheeks were nearly as red as hers.

It fell to Rand to speak. He took a deep breath first. “Yes. Since we were young. It started as a kind of game. An ... exploration, an experiment. Whatever you want to call it. It was ... fun. More than fun.”

She blinked and spoke in a still-stunned voice. “Just you two, or Mat as well?”

Rand pursed his lips. It wasn’t his place to tell her about Mat’s involvement, but he didn’t want to lie to her either. “I ... don’t think that’s anyone’s business,” he dodged.

He didn’t dodge well enough. “Mat, too. How many of the other boys were involved in these ... games? Lem and Bandry? Dav and Elam? Were any of the girls? Was Egwene? Larine Ayellin? Calle Coplin no doubt.” The more she spoke the more of her wits Anna seemed to recover. She scowled. “Not me, of course. Even the boys are prettier than me.”

That last she said with a bitterness Rand had never imagined he would hear from her. Anna was short even by Theren standards, and stockily muscled, she cut her hair even shorter than most males and she dressed in a boys shirt and breeches in defiance of all tradition. She didn’t care even a little bit about what folk thought of her ... or so he’d always imagined. Did she think she was ugly? She wasn’t, not even close. Perhaps she was not the kind of beauty that gleemen told tales of, with her strong, square face and her body strengthened from farmwork, but she had a beauty all her own.

“Nonsense!” he said. He had always thought of her as a sister. Suddenly, disturbingly, he found himself thinking of her as something else. He shook his head and covered his nakedness as best he could, feeling more vulnerable now than he had when she walked in and found him being mounted by Perrin.

“Of course it’s true. I have mirrors,” she looked on the verge of tears.

“It’s not,” whispered Perrin, still unable to look her in the face. “You know what I think of you.”

“You’re a beautiful girl, Anna,” Rand added. “Don’t ever let anyone say otherwise. Not even you.” He shook his head confusedly. “I mean, I’d punch a man who said that about you, but what am I supposed to do when you say it about yourself?”

Her smile was a tremulous thing, and she did not meet his eyes.

“What Perrin and I—and anyone else who might or might not have been involved—get up to ... Well we didn’t want anyone to know. It’s private. We didn’t tell you because we didn’t tell anyone.” He rolled his shoulders. “And obviously we weren’t going to insult you by inviting you to join in.”

She was quiet for a long time. “What if,” she began, almost too softly to hear. “What if I hadn’t been insulted ... What if I had wanted someone to play with, too?”

He blinked repeatedly and felt his mouth fall open.

“I ... I can’t imagine ...” except suddenly he could imagine. Suddenly he was recalling all those times he and his friends had slipped away somewhere private, and imagining what it would have been like if a laughing Anna had sneaked off with them. How would it have gone? How would she have ... fit? He blushed again and swallowed, trying to work moisture into a throat gone parchment dry.

“You and ...” Perrin was unable to finish, but his well-slickened cock had begun to stir again.

“That would have been exciting to say the least,” Rand answered honestly, in a whispery-soft voice.

Anna clasped her hands together and shifted her feet. She still would not meet their eyes. A little pink tongue darted out to lick her lips. “It still could be,” she breathed.

“Yes it could ... if you wanted it to be,” he said softly. He waited. And so did Perrin, wide-eyed and fully erect once more.

Anna took a hesitant step, then another, faster one. She looked them in the eyes again at last and found both men smiling welcomingly. Her answering smile was a little stiff still, but it woke the dimples in her cheeks.

Short as she was, she looked almost childish when she reached the foot of the huge Ogier’s bed. Perrin took her hand and helped haul her up onto the soft mattress.

“We won’t hurt you,” he said.

“I know that,” said Anna. She rested a hand on his chest and leaned in to kiss him. It was a hesitant kiss at first, no more than a peck on the lips. But when Perrin met her with passion she responded in kind. By the time they broke for air she was grinning.

Anna turned her gaze to Rand and her smile became wry. “So here we are. You know, you really shouldn’t be getting all excited like that with your ‘sister’ in the room.” She darted a glance at his hard cock and bit her lip.

He leant over and cupped her face gently between his hands. “I can’t help it, with a lovely sister like you.” He kissed her then, deeply and fully. And this time she melted into his embrace.

There was open wonder on her face when they parted. Rand began undoing the buttons on her coat and she made no move to stop him. Perrin knelt beside them, cock jutting out, and helped Anna out of her coat.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Anna breathed.

As Perrin reached around to loosen her shirt, Rand undid the buckle of her belt and slid a hand down the front of her breeches. He looked her right in the eye as he did it, this girl who had been the closest thing to a sister he had ever known. Her pretty, brown eyes went very wide and she let out a shuddering breath as his fingers caressed her sex. She did not pull away. He smiled brightly and got a matching grin in return.

Perrin tugged her shirt up over her head and Anna, surprisingly pliant, let him. But once she was topless she quickly made to cover her breasts with her hands. She had pretty breasts, judging by the brief glimpse he had gotten; they would have been modestly sized on some, but on her frame they looked large.

Rand didn’t try to pull her hands away, he was too busy ridding her of her breeches and her smallclothes. He pushed both down over her hips, drinking in the sight of her nakedness as it was unveiled to him. She had narrow hips, and only the slightest hint of a woman’s curve at the waist. Her stomach was flat and strong, her thighs thick with muscle. The tangled hair on her sex was a darker brown than that on her head.

Perrin was kissing the side of her neck as Rand worked. He guided her down onto the bed so Rand could finished undressing her. As he rid Anna of her boots and stockings his two friends began kissing hungrily. Perrin’s probing hands moved slowly over her body. Rand pulled her breeches down over her feet and tossed them to the floor and at last Anna was naked before him.

He wasted no time. He caressed one leg with his hand as he kissed his way up the inside of the other. Her legs parted as if by instinct. She didn’t look down, she was too busy kissing Perrin, who now kneaded one of her bared breasts, stiffening her nipple. With Perrin occupying her upper lips, Rand decided to lay claim to her lower ones.

Anna moaned loudly when his lips touched hers.

Perrin shushed her urgently. “You need to be quiet when you do this sort of thing,” he said. “Someone might hear.”

“Alright. Alright. I can be quiet,” said Anna breathlessly.

Rand licked up and down her slit. “I think I can, anyway,” she whimpered.

Anna lounged between them as they explored her body, making small encouraging sounds. Perrin combed his fingers through her hair as he kissed her. Rand reached around and took two handfuls of her ample buttocks as he licked her sopping wet sex.

He was already stirred up from his time with Perrin and having Anna naked before him was making it even worse. He was painfully hard now, and wanted desperately to plunge himself into her dark, earthy depths. But more than that he wanted his dear friend to be happy, so he lay there and caressed her body, and ground himself mindlessly against the soft bedsheets.

After a time, Anna reached down and found Perrin’s cock with her hand. She began stroking him, and not gently.

Rand came to his knees and studied her in an almost predatorial way. She was flushed and breathless and her eyes were filled with lust. When she saw him kneeling before her she quickly reached to take his hard cock in her small, strong hand and stroke it for him just as she was stroking Perrin’s. It felt so good to have her touching him, but he wanted even more.

“Anna,” he groaned. “I want to put it in you. Are you ready?”

“Oh Light, yes,” she gasped. She sat up and kissed him hungrily.

They wrapped their arms around each other, her soft breasts crushed against his chest. He picked her up by the waist and positioned her. With the last shreds of his self-control he made himself wait until she looked him in the eye and gave a little nod of her head before he impaled her upon his engorged cock.

Anna slapped a hand across her mouth to muffle her yells as he hilted himself inside her tight little pussy. Satisfaction washed over Rand. So much that he wondered if he had been wanting this more, and for longer than, he ever admitted to himself.

“Rand,” she moaned. She shivered as she adjusted to his presence inside her and wrapped her strong legs around him. “But what about ...?” She threw a longing gaze over her shoulder.

Perrin moved up behind her and reached down to knead her buttocks.

“Oh. What you two were ...” She bit her lip. “I’ve never ... does it hurt?”

Rand kissed her cheek. “It can at first, if you aren’t ready and don’t relax into it. It gets less painful as it goes on though. It’s all about trust, I think. Trust the person, give yourself over to them, submit, and it won’t hurt.”

Anna looked back and Perrin. “I trust you,” she said sweetly.

Perrin smiled wanly. “I’ll try not to hurt you,” he said, “but I want you so much right now that I’m not sure I can restrain myself.”

Rand put his mouth to her ear and whispered. “He said much the same to me earlier, but I came through fine. I think he exaggerates.”

She smiled at him teasingly. “You are such a bad boy, Rand. I never imagined you would be liked this.”

“Um, given the current situation, are you really about to lecture me?”

She laughed softly and blushed. “I suppose not.”

By then Perrin had taken his place behind her. He parted her fleshy cheeks with his strong hands and aimed his slick cock at her virgin hole, ready to claim his second ass of the day.

“Relax yourself,” Rand whispered. “Let us take care of you, my dear, dear friend.”

She nodded once and rested her head on his shoulder. He felt her go limp in his arms.

She let out a little yelp as Perrin started poking her hole, but she did not tense, or try to get away. He worked his way into her slowly, each shallow thrust taking him a little farther inside and bringing another small whimper from her lips. When at last Perrin was fully inside her, his hairy balls pressing up against her flesh in a way that Rand knew well, she let out a long, shuddering breath.

The wolfbrother growled low. “Finally ...”

“I’m so full,” Anna groaned. “You’re both so big.”

Rand smiled down at her open face. He wondered if the strangely-proportioned house was making her feel as young as it did him. She was acting so sweetly. He wanted to stir her lust, to make her cry out some more, to leave her a twitching, pleasure-addled mess. He moved his hips and slid partially out of her, then thrust slowly forward once more. She moaned encouragingly, he smiled again, and they began in earnest.

The two kneeling men held Anna suspended in the air between them. She was sandwiched front and back by their bodies, her breasts crushed against Rand’s smooth chest and her back sheltered by Perrin’s hairy bulk. Their hands clutched her legs and buttocks as they supported her weight, holding her in place to receive their fiercely pumping cocks.

Rand was overcome with need. He pounded in and out of her sweet warmth. Perrin matched his pace. Such was their lust that it was hard to maintain their balance. Rand found himself pushing back against Anna, as Perrin’s hard thrusts threatened to knock him backwards, and then Perrin had to push back, too, lest he be knocked on his butt.

Anna writhed between them, but pinned as she was her wiggling couldn’t take her far. She had clapped a hand over her mouth as soon as they started fucking her and she held it there still, breathing hard through her nose as she desperately muffled her cries. Her eyes were squeezed shut and she tossed her head in futile denial of the pleasure that filled her.

She tensed herself, squeezing hard around Rand’s cock, and even harder around Perrin’s judging from the wolfbrother’s gritted teeth and strangled groan. Even muffled by her hand, her cry was loud. She dug her trimmed nails into Rand’s shoulder and scrunched up her face as she came between them.

It was sweet to see, sweeter to feel, but neither Rand nor Perrin stopped their thrusting. Anna hung helplessly in the air as she rode out her orgasm.

They picked a side each and began kissing up and down her neck as they fucked her. It wasn’t very long before she was tensing again and letting loose with her muffled cry.

Rand felt the storm building within him and started thrusting with desperate speed. He whispered her name as he exploded within her, filling her womb with his seed. She opened her eyes and watched his face with incredulous wonder as he came inside her for the first time.

He had almost overbalanced them again in the throes of his orgasm, and Perrin pushed back, but this time, wracked with pleasure, limbs trembling, Rand was unable to resist. He fell back, pulling Anna with him, and Perrin followed them to the bed.

Now he lay on his back with Anna cradled against his chest. Perrin knelt above them, lust shining in his golden eyes. He took firm hold of the girl’s hips and rose to a crouching position. Then he began pounding her ass mercilessly with his thick cock.

Anna whimpered as she rested her cheek against Rand. He petted her short, and now sweat-damp, hair comfortingly. She had such a pretty smile.

His cock was still hard within her, a gentle, unmoving presence now, filling her pussy. Stark contrast to the fierce pounding that Perrin was giving her butt.

Soon Anna tensed for a third time. By now a familiar feeling, Rand took her face in his hands and raised her lips to his, muffling her cries for her.

Her clenching seemed to push Perrin over the edge. “Anna,” he hissed and bared his teeth in a snarl. Eyes shut, muscles tensed and head thrown back, he pumped her ass full of his milky seed.

Soft little moans escaped Anna as she felt herself being flooded once more. She lay between them, sweaty, limp and sated, breathing heavily.

Perrin was the first to disengage. He abandoned Anna’s now-gaping ass with an exhausted sigh and sprawled beside them on the sheets of the huge bed.

Rand savoured the feeling of Anna resting naked against him. All too soon, she was pushing herself up off him and his softening cock was slipping out of her comforting warmth. She let out a long sigh as she rolled over to rest between the two men.

“Of all the things I imagined I’d find or do in a  _ stedding _ ...” she mumbled.

Rand laughed softly. “You said I should stay here earlier. You’re doing a good job of convincing me so far.”

A lackadaisical elbow in the ribs was his answer.

“I’m still mad at you both though.”

Perrin sighed. “I know.”

She shook her head. “Not for that. That’s a whole different thing. I’m not mad at you over that. I just don’t agree with it.”

Perrin grunted.

“Is this more stuff I don’t know?” Rand said wryly. “Well, never mind. What did we do to make you mad, Anna?”

She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “We could have started doing this years ago, and you never even asked me! What a waste,” she sniffed.

Rand and Perrin laughed, and soon Anna laughed with them.

They lay together on the oversized bed for some time, chatting about the past, naked and sweaty and altogether comfortable. Rand felt young again. He tried not to think about what awaited him outside this room, or outside the  _ stedding _ . He worked instead on burning this memory into his mind. It would sustain him in the days to come.

When Hurin called to announce through the—sensibly!—locked door that dinner had arrived, the three Thereners rose from the Ogier bed with a chorus of sighs and went to fetch their clothes. It took quite a bit of sorting to find who owned what. Rand laughed loudly when Perrin tried to squeeze into Anna’s breeches by mistake.

He watched her openly as they dressed. There was a lovely contrast between the hard muscles on her upper back, the result of years of practice with a longbow, and the soft, round globes of her bottom. He liked her breasts and the small, hard nipples that tipped them. And the thick brown triangle of hair between her thighs. Anna noticed his scrutiny. At first she tried to quell it with a warning glower, but by the time she was fetching her coat from the floor she was grinning unabashedly. She looked more confident somehow. He wanted very much to have her again, but knew he couldn’t. Not now, perhaps not ever. After all, who knew what the future held for them?


	19. Traps

CHAPTER 44: Traps

Padan Fain reined in his horse atop a hill above Falme, in one of the few sparse thickets remaining on the hills outside the city. The pack horse bearing his precious burden bumped his leg, and he kicked it in the ribs without looking; the animal snorted and jerked back to the end of the lead he had tied to his saddle. The woman had not wanted to give up her horse, no more than any of the Darkfriends who had followed him had wanted to be left alone in the hills with the Trollocs, without Fain’s protecting presence. He had solved both problems easily. Meat in a Trolloc cookpot had no need of a horse. The woman’s companions had been shaken by the journey along the Ways, to a Waygate outside a long-abandoned  _ stedding _ only a short ride from Falme, and watching the Trollocs prepare their dinner had made the surviving Darkfriends extremely biddable.

From the edge of the trees, Fain studied the city and sneered. One short merchant train was rumbling in among the stables and horse lots and wagon yards that bordered the town, while another rumbled out, raising little dust from dirt packed by many years of such traffic. The men driving the wagons and the few riding beside them were all local men by their clothing, yet the mounted men, at least, had swords on baldrics, and even a few spears and bows. The soldiers he saw, and there were few, did not seem to be watching the armed men they had supposedly conquered.

He had learned something of these people, these Seanchan, in his day and a night on Toman Head. At least, as much as the defeated folk knew. It was never hard to find someone alone, and they always answered questions properly put. Men gathered more information on the invaders, as if they actually believed they would eventually do something with what they knew, but they sometimes tried to hold back. Women, by and large, seemed interested in going on with their lives whoever their rulers were, yet they noted details men did not, and they talked more quickly once they stopped screaming. Children talked the quickest of all, but they seldom said much that was worthwhile.

He had discarded three quarters of what he had heard as nonsense and rumours growing into fables, but he took some of those conclusions back, now. Anyone at all could enter Falme it appeared. With a start, he saw the truth of a little more “nonsense” as twenty soldiers rode out of the town. He could not make out their mounts clearly, but they were certainly not horses. They ran with a fluid grace, and their dark skins seemed to have a glint in the morning sun, as of scales. He craned his neck to watch them disappear inland, then booted his horse toward the town.

The local folk among the stables and parked wagons and fenced horse lots gave him no more than a glance or two. He had no interest in them, either; he rode on into the town, onto its cobblestone streets sloping down to the harbour. He could see the harbour clearly, and the large, oddly shaped Seanchan ships anchored there. No-one bothered him as he searched streets that were neither crowded nor empty. There were more Seanchan soldiers here. The people hurried about their business with eyes down, bowing whenever soldiers passed, but the Seanchan paid them no mind. It all seemed peaceful on the surface, despite the armoured Seanchan in the streets and the ships in the harbour, but Fain could sense the tension underneath. He always did well where men were tense and afraid.

He came to the fortress that dominated the city, standing as it did nearly four times the height of the next tallest building. He sneered again and wondered why even a land ruled by a matriarchy would favour buildings shaped like a cock. Fain spared no more than a glance for the skeletal corpse of the Falmeran queen displayed in the square he now rode across. The people he had questioned had been horrified by their queen’s fate, and terrified of sharing it, but Fain had seen and done much worse. More than a dozen soldiers stood guard before the fortress gates. He doubted he would pass unchallenged here. Fain stopped and dismounted. Except for one obvious officer, most wore armour of unrelieved black, and their helmets made him think of locusts’ heads. Two leathery-skinned beasts with three eyes and horny beaks instead of mouths flanked the front door, squatting like crouching frogs; the soldier standing by each of the creatures had three eyes painted on the breast of his armour. Fain eyed the blue-bordered banner flapping above the roof, the spread-winged hawk clutching lightning bolts, and chortled inside himself.

Women went in and out of a house across the street, women linked by silver leashes, but he ignored them. He knew about  _ damane _ from the villagers. They might be of some use later, but not now.

The soldiers were looking at him, especially the officer, whose armour was all gold and red and green.

Forcing an ingratiating smile onto his face, Fain made himself bow deeply. “My lords, I have something here that will interest your Great Lord. I assure you, he will want to see it, and me personally.” He gestured to the squarish shape on his packhorse, still wrapped in the huge, striped blanket in which his people had found it.

The officer stared him up and down. “You sound a foreigner to this land. Have you taken the oaths?”

“I obey, await, and will serve,” Fain replied smoothly. Everyone he had questioned spoke of the oaths, though none had understood what they meant. If these people wanted oaths, he was prepared to swear anything. He had long since lost count of the oaths he had taken.

The officer motioned two of his men to see what was under the blanket. Surprised grunts at the weight as they lifted it down from the packsaddle turned to gasps when they stripped the blanket away. The officer stared with no expression on his face at the silver-worked golden chest resting on the cobblestones, then looked at Fain. “A gift fit for the Empress herself. You will come with me.”

One of the soldiers searched Fain roughly, but he endured it in silence, noting that the officer and the two soldiers who took up the chest surrendered their swords and daggers before going inside. Anything he could learn of these people, however small, might help, though he was confident of his plan already. He was always confident, but never more than where lords feared an assassin’s knife from their own followers.

As they went through the gates, the officer frowned at him, and for a moment Fain wondered why.  _ Of course. The beasts _ . Whatever they were, they were certainly no worse than Trollocs, nothing at all beside a Myrddraal, and he had not given them a second look. It was too late to pretend to be afraid of them now. But the Seanchan said nothing, only led him deeper into the fort.

And so Fain found himself with his face pressed to the rough stone floor of a throne room that had been stripped of the trappings of power. The throne itself—a simple wooden thing—remained, but the High Lord did not sit in it, and the rest of the chamber was almost completely devoid of furnishings. Folding screens hid the walls and the attending servants, powerful or venal, stood or knelt as required. While the officer told the High Lord Turak of him and his offering, servants brought a table on which to set the chest so the High Lord would have no need to stoop; all Fain saw of them were scurrying slippers. He bided his time impatiently. Eventually there would come a time when he was not the one to bow.

When at last Fain was told to rise, he did so slowly, studying all. The High Lord, with his shaven head and his long fingernails and his blue silk robe brocaded with blossoms, was arrogant, that was plain.  _ An easy flaw to exploit _ . Fain was sure the fellow in green who stood beside him, with the unshaven half of his pale hair in a long braid, was only a servant, but servants could be useful, especially if they stood high in their master’s sight. The short, bosomy girl with the pale hair and paler robe, was beautiful enough to be the High Lord’s bedtoy, but carried herself too proudly for that to be her role. A lesser lady, she waited for Turak to speak.  _ Ambitious perhaps? _ He was no seducer, but there were other ways to tempt someone. There was no denying the other noblewoman’s ambition. The crest of black hair that ran from her partially shaven head to the small of her back was a bizarre sight, but the intent way she watched Turak’s every move was delightfully familiar. The greying man stood only a little taller than the girl and Fain noticed that the little fingers on his hand were lacquered, not unlike the High Lord’s, though the man had the rough-hewn look of a soldier. Several officers, and two women in red-and-blue dresses decorated with forked lightning bolts, hovered at his back.  _ A high-ranking officer. Perhaps raised from the ranks? Out of his depth ... that could be useful _ . Half a dozen men in armour lacquered dark-green and red stood watch around the chamber, and unlike the captain from the gates, these men went armed. Two displayed the heron on their black-tasselled blades.

Fain felt his lips try to peel back from his teeth and fought them to stillness. That sign always reminded him of al’Thor now.  _ Soon. He will be here soon, and these great warriors will be his doom _ , he thought gleefully. Ba’alzamon thought to use them, had ordered them protected and their invasion supported from the shadows, but Fain could use them, too, for his own goals. He had learned the date from his prisoners after arriving on Toman Head and knew that his journey through the Ways and across the continent had only taken four days in the real world. Al’Thor would be right behind him. It was the first of Tammaz now, and the last week of the boy’s life. Would the beasts eat him alive? The  _ damane _ cook him where he stood? Fain hoped he would be near enough to see it happen ...

A voice disturbed his pleasant imaginings. “A marvellous gift.” Turak’s eyes lifted from the chest to Fain. A scent of roses wafted from the High Lord. “Yet the question asks itself; how did one like you come by a chest many lesser lords could not afford? Are you a thief?”

Fain tugged at his worn, none-too-clean coat. “It is sometimes necessary for a man to appear less than he is, High Lord. My present shabbiness allowed me to bring this to you unmolested. This chest is old, High Lord—as old as the Age of Legends—and within it lies a treasure such as few eyes have ever seen. Soon—very soon, High Lord—I will be able to open it, and give you that which will enable you to take this land as far as you wish, to the Spine of the World, the Aiel Waste, the lands beyond. Nothing will stand against you, High Lord, once I—” He cut off as Turak began running his long-nailed fingers over the chest.

“I have seen chests such as this, chests from the Age of Legends,” the High Lord said, “though none so fine. They are meant to be opened only by those who know the pattern, but I—ah!” He pressed among the ornate whorls and bosses, there was a sharp click, and he lifted back the lid. A flicker of what might have been disappointment passed across his face.

Fain bit the inside of his mouth till blood came to keep from snarling. It lessened his bargaining position that he was not the one who had opened the chest. Still, all the rest could go as he had planned if he could only make himself be patient. But he had been patient so long.

“This is a treasure from the Age of Legends?” Turak said, lifting out the curled Horn in one hand. “The Age of Legends,” Turak repeated softly, tracing the silver script inlaid around the golden bell of the Horn with the tip of a finger. His brows rose in startlement, the first open expression Fain had seen from him, and a rustle went through the room, but in the next instant Turak’s face was as smooth as ever. “Do you have any idea what this is?”

“The Horn of Valere, High Lord,” Fain said smoothly, pleased to see the mouth of the man with the braid drop open. It amused him to watch the great and mighty fools assembled there struggle to hide their thoughts. The little lady’s mouth popped open and then snapped shut again. The officers tried to hide their shock and awe and failed, even the high-ranked one. Only the darkly-armoured guards showed no reaction. Turak nodded as if to himself.

The High Lord turned away. Fain blinked and opened his mouth, then, at a sharp gesture from the yellow-haired man, followed without speaking. Two of the armed guardsmen followed, watching Fain carefully. The rest remained in the former throne room with the dignitaries, who struck up a frantic whisper as soon as the High Lord passed beyond their sight.

He was led to another room with all the original furnishings gone, replaced by folding screens and a single chair facing a tall round cabinet. Still holding the Horn, Turak looked at the cabinet, then away. He said nothing, but the other Seanchan snapped quick orders, and in moments men in plain woollen robes appeared through a door behind the screens bearing another small table. A young woman with hair so pale it was almost white came behind them, her arms full of small stands of polished wood in various sizes and shapes. Her garment was white silk, and so thin that Fain could see her body clearly through it, but he had eyes only for High Lord, and the revenge he could use him to gain.

Turak briefly touched one of the wooden stands the girl held, and she placed it on the centre of the table. The men turned the chair to face it under the direction of the man with the braid. The lower servants’ hair hung to their shoulders. They scurried out with bows that almost put their heads on their knees.

Placing the Horn on the stand so that it stood upright, Turak went to sit in the chair. “Before all else, you will answer me a question. Why have you brought the Horn of Valere to me?”

Fain bowed. “That you may sound it, High Lord. Then you may take all of this land, if you wish. All of the world. You may break the White Tower and grind the Aes Sedai to dust, for even their powers cannot stop heroes come back from the dead.”

“I am to sound it.” Turak’s tone was flat. “And break the White Tower. Again, why? You claim to obey, await, and serve, but this is a land of oath-breakers. Why do you give your land to me? Do you have some private quarrel with these ... women?”

Fain tried to make his voice convincing. Patient, like a worm boring from within. “High Lord, my family has passed down a tradition, generation upon generation. We served the High King, Artur Paendrag Tanreall, and when he was murdered by the witches of Tar Valon, we did not abandon our oaths. When others warred and tore apart what Artur Hawkwing had made, we held to our swearing, and suffered for it, but held to it still. This is our tradition, High Lord, handed father to son, and mother to daughter, down all the years since the High King was murdered. That we await the return of the armies Artur Hawkwing sent across the Aryth Ocean, that we await the return of Artur Hawkwing’s blood to destroy the White Tower and take back what was the High King’s. And when the Hawkwing’s blood returns, we will serve and advise, as we did for the High King. High Lord, except for its border, the banner that flies over this roof is the banner of Luthair, the son Artur Paendrag Tanreall sent with his armies across the ocean.” Fain dropped to his knees, giving a good imitation of being overwhelmed. “High Lord, I wish only to serve and advise the blood of the High King.”

Turak was silent so long that Fain began to wonder if he needed further convincing; he was ready with more, as much as was required. Finally, though, the High Lord spoke. “You seem to know what none, neither the high nor the low, has spoken since sighting this land. The people here speak it as one rumour among ten, but you know. I can see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice. I could almost think you were sent to entangle me in a trap. But who, possessing the Horn of Valere, would use it so? None of those of the Blood who came with the  _ Hailene _ could have had the Horn, for the legend says it was hidden in this land. And surely any lord of this land would use it against me rather than put it in my hands. How did you come to possess the Horn of Valere? Do you claim to be a hero, as in the legend? Have you done valorous deeds?”

“I am no hero, High Lord.” Fain ventured a self-deprecating smile, but Turak’s face did not alter, and he let it go. “The Horn was found by an ancestor of mine during the turmoil after the High King’s death. He knew how to open the chest, but that secret died with him in the War of the Hundred Years, that rent Artur Hawkwing’s empire, so that all we who followed him knew was that the Horn lay within and we must keep it safe until the High King’s blood returned.”

“Almost could I believe you.”

“Believe, High Lord. Once you sound the Horn—”

“Do not ruin what convincing you have managed to do. I shall not sound the Horn of Valere. When I return to Seanchan, I shall present it to the Empress as the chiefest of my trophies. Perhaps the Empress will sound it herself.”

“But, High Lord,” Fain protested, “you must—” He found himself lying on his side, his head ringing. Only when his eyes cleared did he see the man with the pale braid rubbing his knuckles and realize what had happened.

“Some words,” the fellow said softly, “are never used to the High Lord.” Fain decided how the man was going to die.

Neither of the soldiers had moved, they watched Fain intently but without alarm, confident they could deal with any threat he presented.

Turak looked from Fain to the Horn as placidly as if he had seen nothing. “Perhaps I will give you to the Empress along with the Horn of Valere. She might find you amusing, a man who claims his family held true where all others broke their oaths or forgot them.”

Fain hid his sudden elation in the act of climbing back to his feet. He had not even known of the existence of an Empress until Turak mentioned her, but access to a ruler again ... that opened new paths, new plans. Access to a ruler with the might of the Seanchan beneath her and the Horn of Valere in her hands. Much better than making this Turak a Great King. He could wait for some parts of his plan.  _ Softly. Mustn’t let him know how much you want it. After so long, a little more patience will not hurt _ . “As the High Lord wishes,” he said, trying to sound like a man who only wanted to serve.

“You seem almost eager,” Turak said, and Fain barely suppressed a wince. “I will tell you why I will not sound the Horn of Valere, or even keep it, and perhaps that will cure your eagerness. I do not wish a gift of mine to offend the Empress by his actions; if your eagerness cannot be cured, it will never be satisfied, for you will never leave these shores. Do you know that whoever blows the Horn of Valere is linked to it thereafter? That so long as he or she lives, it is no more than a horn to any other?” He did not sound as if he expected answers, and in any case, he did not pause for them. “I stand twelfth in line of succession to the Crystal Throne. If I kept the Horn of Valere, all between myself and the throne would think I meant to be first hereafter, and while the Empress, of course, wishes that we contend with one another so that the strongest and most cunning will follow her, she currently favours her second daughter, and she would not look well on any threat to Tuon. If I sounded it, even if I then laid this land at her feet, and every woman in the White Tower leashed, the Empress, may she live forever, would surely believe I meant to be more than merely her heir.”

Fain stopped himself short of suggesting how possible that would be with the aid of the Horn. Something in the High Lord’s voice suggested—as hard as Fain found it to believe—that he actually meant his wish for her to live forever.  _ I must be patient. A worm in the root _ .

“The Empress’ Listeners may be anywhere,” Turak continued. “They may be anyone. Huan was born and raised in the House of Aladon, and his family for eleven generations before him, yet even he could be a Listener.” The man with the braid half made a protesting gesture, before jerking himself back to stillness. “Even a high lord or a high lady can find their deepest secrets known to Listeners, can wake to find themselves already handed over to the Seekers for Truth. Truth is always difficult to find, but the Seekers spare no pain in their search, and they will search as long as they think there is need. They make great efforts not to allow a high lord or high lady to die in their care, of course, for no man’s hand may slay one in whose veins flows the blood of Artur Hawkwing. If the Empress must order such a death, the unfortunate one is placed alive in a silken bag, and that bag hung over the side of the Tower of the Ravens and left there until it rots away. No such care would be taken for one such as you. At the Court of the Nine Moons, in Seandar, one such as you could be given to the Seekers for a shift of your eye, for a misspoken word, for a whim. Are you still eager?”

Fain managed a tremble in his knees. “I wish only to serve and advise, High Lord. I know much that may be useful.” This court of Seandar sounded a place where his plans and skills would find fertile soil.

“Until I sail back to Seanchan, you will amuse me with your tales of your family and its tradition. It is a relief to find a second man in this Light-forsaken land who can amuse me, even if you both tell lies, as I suspect. You may leave me.” No other word was spoken, but the girl with the nearly white hair and the almost-transparent robe appeared on quick feet to kneel with downcast head beside the High Lord, offering a single steaming cup on a lacquered tray.

“High Lord,” Fain said. The man with the braid, Huan, took hold of his arm, but he pulled loose. Huan’s mouth tightened angrily as Fain made his deepest bow yet.  _ I will kill him slowly, yes _ . “High Lord, there are those who follow me. They mean to take the Horn of Valere. Darkfriends and worse High Lord, and they cannot be more than a day or two behind me.”

Turak took a sip of black liquid from the thin cup balanced on long-nailed fingertips. “Few Darkfriends remain in Seanchan. Those who survive the Seekers for Truth meet the axe of the headsman. It might be amusing to meet a Darkfriend.”

“High Lord, they are dangerous. They have Trollocs with them. They are led by one who calls himself Rand al’Thor. A young man, but vile in the Shadow beyond belief, with a lying, devious tongue. In many places he has claimed to be many things, but always the Trollocs come when he is there, High Lord. Always the Trollocs come ... and kill.”

“Trollocs,” Turak mused. “There were no Trollocs in Seanchan. But the Armies of the Night had other allies. Other things. I have often wondered if a  _ grolm _ could kill a Trolloc. I will have watch kept for your Trollocs and your Darkfriends, if they are not another lie. This land wearies me with boredom.” He sighed and inhaled the fumes from his cup.

Fain let the grimacing Huan pull him out of the room, hardly even listening to the snarled lecture on what would happen if he ever again failed to leave Lord Turak’s presence when given permission to do so. He barely noticed when he was pushed into the street with a coin and instructions to return on the morrow. Rand al’Thor was his, now.  _ I will see him dead at last. And then the world will pay for what was done to me _ .

Giggling under his breath, he led his horses down into the town in search of an inn.

* * *

Nafanyel had always liked the summer forests. Chaffinchs, blackbirds, warblers, their songs overlapped each other and mingled with the warm wind that rustled through the leaves. It was almost enough to drown out the complaints of his conscious. Almost.

Jak Denam and the twenty veterans who accompanied them had set up camp in an open clearing. The sound of their laughter and the smell of good venison cooking on an open fire drifted over to the rock on the edge of the treeline where Nafanyel sat brooding. The camp had the look of innocence to it, of trusting men who waited for trusted friends to arrive. It was not the first such camp he had seen in recent times. He had seen what happened to those who came to meet them, too. Enemies, his father had called them. Rivals. Just do your duty and stop complaining. Nafanyel had done his duty, but it was a bitter thing.

The Seanchan still squatted in Falme, slowly expanding their influence over Falmerden. And the King still lingered in Calranell, guarding the mountain passes against a second invasion that had not come. They waited to see who would blink first. Nafanyel wished he knew whose side he was on, and what his father hoped to gain by committing their Houses to it. Whoever they worked for, he could be certain General Surtir was not involved. The officer they had been sent to meet with belonged to him, after all.

He heard the whicker of their horses long before they arrived in the clearing.

Nafanyel knew he should go and greet his guest, represent the family, but he remained rooted on his rock. He had no taste for making niceties, knowing what would soon happen.

A dozen men in the dark grey platemail and red surcoats of the royal army rode into camp at an easy walk. Denam greeted them with a friendly smile, one that grew wider when he realised the captain who led them was a woman. Female soldiers were a rarity in Falmerden, as in most nations, but not unheard of. Nafanyel recalled Lady Oriana’s fate with a bitter twist to his mouth.  _ I could shoot him from here _ , he thought traitorously as he watched through the branches. But he set no arrow to the bow in his hand.

The officer was tall for a woman, and the open front of her helmet showed a face that would have been handsome if it were not frozen in a hard, stern mask. She offered Denam her hand, and when he took it, shook his firmly.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Alix,” said Denam. “A real pleasure. You’ll forgive me, but when I heard the name I thought it was a man we were supposed to join forces with against these bloody invaders. I wasn’t expected such a beauty.” His friendly grin showed too many teeth.

Alix didn’t seem to notice. “Captain. Not Lady,” she said flatly. “Is that venison for share? My men have been on the march since sunup.”

“Help yourselves, friends,” Denam said with a welcoming wave of his arm. The patrol dismounted and set to hobbling their horses before joining Nafanyel’s men by the fire.  _ I should join them _ , he though. But Denam seemed to have everything in hand.  _ I should warn them _ , he thought. But that would mean betraying his father and his House. He would hate himself for that, so he did nothing, and hated himself anyway.

The general’s men and his own sat around the fire and talked grimly of things Nafanyel could not hear over their mingled voices. Denam leaned close to Alix, smiling and laughing as he spoke, but she did not return his smiles and Nafanyel watched the guardsman’s irritation grow. As he sat there with his bow in his hand he saw the exact moment Denam decided. Alix, who seemed to like her meat crispy, speared a chunk of venison on an old knife and leaned over to hold it in the fire, ignoring Denam’s latest attempt to flirt. He scowled and shot a glance at the grey-haired sergeant Gerd, who nodded once and let a hand drift down to his boot, where he always kept a spare knife.

_ Shoot him _ , a voice said, as Denam slid a knife from his belt and put a hand on Alix’s shoulder.

When the arrows sprouted from his men’s bodies, Nafanyel thought, for one mad moment, that it was he that had fired them.

Captain Alix dropped her dinner on the grass and seized Denam by the wrist, slipping around behind him and kicking the back of his knee, forcing him down. She twisted the guardsman’s knife from his hand and rammed it into his side with the first expression he had seen on her face: satisfaction. “The General was right again,” she said, as she twisted the knife in Denam’s body and made him howl in pain.

All throughout the camp men were shouting and screaming. The sounds were all-too familiar to Nafanyel now, but this time it was his own men who were dying in the ambush. The worst thing was how relieved he felt.

His bow was in his hand, and he had nocked an arrow instinctually once the fighting started. He raised it and sighted on the enemy captain as she shouted into the trees, calling for her hidden archers to join the butchery. He did not aim at her long. Nafanyel shook his head grimly, lowered his bow, turned and fled into the familiar forest. He just wished he knew where he was running, and what he was running from.


	20. News From Cairhien

CHAPTER 45: News From Cairhien

Life in the White Tower was every bit as gruelling as her mother had warned. She attended to every duty they assigned her with proper diligence, and did not complain where any Aes Sedai, Accepted, or even fellow Novice could hear. But privately Elayne Trakand wondered if they were not being especially hard on her. If they were expecting her to complain or plead for respite like some coddled princess, however, they would have a long wait ahead of them.

Only to her brother Gawyn—her only real brother so far as she was concerned—and her beloved Min, did she allow herself to ... express her concerns about the tasks she was given, and the quality of the instructors who gave them.

Daily, after one meal or another, she scrubbed dirty pots with coarse salt and a stiff brush in the workroom off the main kitchen. From time to time Laras would put her head in to check on her. She never used her long spoon, even when Elayne was massaging the small of her back, aching from being head-down in a large kettle, rather than scrubbing. She dealt no justice to the scullions and under-cooks who delighted in playing pranks on Elayne either, mores the pity.

Novices were always given chores. Often it was make-work, since the Tower had well over a thousand serving men and women without counting labourers, but physical work helped build character, so the Tower had always believed. Plus, it helped keep the Novices too tired to think of men, supposedly.

Elayne could not follow their logic in that. Exhausted as she almost always was now, she still thought of Min constantly, and savoured every moment she could find to be with her, regardless of whether it was in company or in private. Well, perhaps not completely regardless. Private was ... quite a bit better, if she were honest. Still, though she had never known any male suitors in Caemlyn, she imagined the excitement and tenderness would be much the same as she felt for Min. But perhaps the Aes Sedai knew something on the matter that no-one had thought to tell her.

Daily, after lessons, she hauled water in buckets hanging from the ends of a pole balanced across her shoulders, to the kitchen, to the Novice Quarters, to the Accepted’s Quarters, all the way up to the Ajah’s Quarters. She carried meals to sisters in their rooms, raked garden paths, pulled weeds, ran errands for sisters, attended Sitters, swept floors, mopped floors, scrubbed floors on her hands and knees, and that was only a partial list.

Visiting the nine-tiered well surrounding a small garden that formed the Accepted’s Quarters gave her a chance to see Daniele and her pillow-friend with the unfortunate name. Aside from Min, those two were the closest she had come to befriending. Daniele had immediately seen through her efforts to keep her relationship with Min a secret, and though she was quite stern, she was supportive, too. Elayne felt comfortable going to her for advice.

Daniele was nowise near as stern as the newest Accepted in the Tower, and a lot easier to talk to. Nynaeve al’Meara had made few friends since coming to Tar Valon. No friends, in fact. And had only herself to blame for it so far as Elayne was concerned. Min had tried repeatedly to befriend her, and been most rudely rebuffed. Min took it with no more than a shrug and a wry smile, but Elayne had been outraged on her behalf.

Nynaeve’s attitude was not endearing her to the Sisters either. In the two months since she passed her test she had spent more time in the Mistress of Novices chamber than all of the other Accepted combined.

Thinking of the Mistress of Novices, and the humiliating things that could happen to one who was sent to visit her, quickened Elayne’s steps. She did not like to be late at the best of times, and she certainly did not wish to be late with Sheriam and her slipper lurking just a few floors down.

The day’s first class, in a plain, windowless room where ten Novices occupied benches for thirty or more, went poorly. The instructor was Idrelle Menford, a lanky, hard-eyed Andorwoman. Sadly, Idrelle was acutely aware of Elayne’s status in their native land and took every opportunity to try and cut her down to size. Elayne answered each question promptly and politely and performed all the required exercises, but it never seemed to lessen Idrelle’s scowl.

She had been foolish to hope to keep her title a secret here, she knew that now. The Andoran initiates all knew that Elayne was Daughter-Heir now. It won her resentment from some, like Idrelle, but the regard it won from others was nearly as bad. Elayne was nowise near so sheltered that she could not see when someone was angling for an advantage; little as she liked the Game, she had been taught  _ Daes Dae’mar _ practically from birth. She supposed she should not villainize them. Girls like Paege or Lucilde would be pleasant enough company, even knowing they were ever mindful of the advantage they hoped to gain by befriending her. She could expand her social circle to include them with no more than a carefully-timed smile ... but having tasted real friendship from Min, true affection, she had little interest in the careful, conditional companionship such alliances offered.

Standing on a small dais at the front of the room, Idrelle looked down her long nose at the assembled Novices. The frown she wore was not a sign of displeasure, with her it was a permanent fixture. “You have all gone beyond making simple balls of fire,” she told the class, “but let’s see what our new girl is capable of. She used to think a great deal of herself, you know.” Several of the Novices tittered. “Make a ball of fire, Elayne. Go on, child.”  _ A ball of fire? _ That was one of the earliest things Novices learned.  _ What is she about? _

Opening herself to the Source, Elayne embraced  _ saidar _ , let it rush into her, bringing with it a surge of joy and a heightened awareness of herself and the room around her. With careful precision, she channelled Fire and Air to produce a small ball of green fire that floated in front of her.

“Very good,” Idrelle said sarcastically. “Release  _ saidar _ .” Elayne complied with as much grace as she could muster.

“Now, class—”

It was nearly time for dinner when Idrelle finally found a question she could trip Elayne up with and by then the other Novices, far from being sympathetic to the pestering she had received, had started glaring at Elayne as though it was her fault that the Accepted was not properly dividing her attention.

“Wrong,” Idrelle announced happily, as Elayne tried to conceal her annoyance with herself. “Who can tell me the correct answer?” She cast her frown about the room and let it come to rest on a bored-looking Arafellin, with her yellow hair—uncommon in that nation—in two long braids. “Ashara! Pay attention. Or better yet, enlighten us. But I warn you, if I have to repeat the question, Sheriam Sedai is going to have another visitor ...”

Ashara sounded as disinterested as she looked. “An  _ angreal _ , or  _ sa’angreal, _ magnifies the amount of Power that an individual can channel, it does not add a set amount but varies depending on the innate strength of the woman who draws through it.”

“Good,” said Idrelle, though her lips thinned.

The loud boom of the gong was a welcome sound. Elayne gathered herself and made haste to the door along with all the other Novices as Idrelle threw a last few remonstrance’s their way.

“You’re very smart, Elayne,” said Marah, as they made their way down a curving ramp. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Novice who knew as much as you so soon after arriving.” Elayne studied her carefully. The stocky Murandian’s words were kind, but there was a hint of mischief in her eyes. She could almost hear her mother’s voice.  _ Answer every question twice, Elayne. And the first time in your head, where only you can know how foolish it sounds. _ The Queen had laughed ruefully afterwards.  _ There have been many times I wished  _ I  _ had done as much _ .

“You are most kind to say so, Marah,” she answered, after a pause. “But I fear intelligence has little to do with it. I merely echo what my tutors taught. The wisdom, if there is any, belongs to them. Now, if you will excuse me ...”

The dining hall where novices ate lay on the lowest level of the Tower, to one side of the main kitchen. It was a large white-walled chamber, plain though the floor tiles showed all the Ajah colours, and filled with tables, each of which could accommodate six or eight women on small benches. No more than ten of the tables were occupied with chatting white-clad young women.

Halfway to the kitchen door, a short slim novice with long dark hair suddenly stuck out a foot and tripped her. Catching her balance just short of falling on her face, she turned in a fury. The young woman had the pale look of a Cairhienin noble, like the father Elayne barely recalled. “How dare you?” she demanded. Her temper flared even hotter when she heard her own high-pitched voice. She had never had a voice suited for roaring, much to her regret. “What is your name?”

“Alvistere Malevin,” the young woman replied, smiling in an insultingly knowing way. Her accent confirmed her as Cairhienin, but commonborn rather than noble. “Why do you want to know? So you can carry tales to Sheriam? It will do you no good. Everyone will say they saw nothing.”

“Will they? You are certain there is no way I could convince them to do otherwise? No resource at my disposal?” Alvistere blinked in surprise. Elayne had endured everything that had been thrown at her thus far and had managed to keep her temper in check, but there were limits. And this silly little ... Buttered onion sniffing ...  _ goat-jumper _ ... had the audacity to threaten harm to her person!? It was ... it was a bugger is what it was!

Alvistere’s face reddened from the heat of Elayne’s fury. “There is a limit to what I will endure, Cairhienin,” she declared in her best imitation of her mother’s voice. “And you are walking dangerously close to it. Be mindful of where you set your feet in future.”

She stalked towards the kitchen, all her carefully-practiced poise abandoned. She wanted to kick something, or better yet, someone.

The kitchen was a large, high-ceilinged room with grey-tiled floors, where the roasting spits in the long stone fireplace were still but the iron stoves and ovens radiated enough heat that she began perspiring immediately, which only served to worsen her mood. She had laboured in this kitchen often enough, and it seemed certain she would again in the days and weeks and months—years even?—to come. Dining halls surrounded it on three sides, for the Accepted and for Aes Sedai as well as Novices. Laras, the Mistress of the Kitchens was bustling about; her spotless white apron no true indication of the amount of work she did here. She waved her long wooden spoon like a sceptre as she directed the cooks and under-cooks and scullions who scurried about.

Elayne growled out her frustration, balling her fists and stamping her feet.

Laras gave her one long look, drawing in her chin until she had a fourth, then pointed imperiously at the covered trays waiting on a table near the door. “Take a moment to steady yourself, girl,” she said kindly. “Then get some warm food into you.” She shook her head. “You’d think they’d feed you better in a palace, you’re as slender as a reed.”

To her surprise and horror, tears stung Elayne’s eyes. She turned away from the woman and drew several deep breaths to compose herself.

“Thank you, Mistress Laras,” she said when she felt she could trust her voice. “I am a little peckish, in truth.”

Laras wandered over, cradling her spoon under her arm. “They’re always toughest on the new girls. It will get better, you’ll see,” she said in a voice pitched for Elayne’s ears alone.

Elayne nodded gratefully. She hoped it was so ... but if it was not, she would not flinch from it. She vowed that on the Lion Throne itself.

A great deal of the food seemed to be going onto trays, sometimes worked silver, sometimes carved wood and perhaps gilded, that women carried away through the door to the sisters’ main dining hall. Not kitchen serving women with the white Flame of Tar Valon on their bosoms, but dignified women in well-cut woollens with an occasional touch of embroidery, sisters’ personal servants who would make the long climb back to the Ajah Quarters.

Any Aes Sedai could eat in her own rooms if she wished, though it meant channelling to warm the food again, yet most enjoyed company at meals.

Elaida, she knew from long association, was changeable in such matters. In Caemlyn she had been as like to seclude herself for several days in a row as she was to dine with the Queen and her court. None had ever rebuked her for her absences, of course, but it had been marked. Today, the Red sister seemed to be in a sociable mood.

Six sisters in scarlet splendour were arranged around the dining table, confident, hard-faced women one and all, but it was Elaida who spoke and the others who listened. Elayne recognised three of the others: the spare, sharp-faced Javindhra Doraille; the curly-haired Andoran, Sashalle Anderly; and the stocky Taraboner, Amira Moselle, who had been Mistress of Novices during the reign of Sierin Vayu and was now a Sitter for the Red Ajah in the Hall of the Tower.

Elaida was gesturing emphatically as she gave forth on whatever topic had so enraptured her. Her dark eyes fixed on Elayne, watching from the kitchen, and she paused mid-gesture. Elayne did not flinch from Elaida’s look. Severe as the Aes Sedai often was, she was a familiar—if not comforting—presence.

The Red sister beckoned for Elayne to join her, an act that perforce raised the girl’s brow. Novices did not often enter the Aes Sedai’s private dining hall. But, of course, having been summoned, she could not refuse.

Her approach garnered many a cool glance from the Aes Sedai in the chamber, but none forbade her entrance.

She stopped before Elaida’s table and made a carefully-measured curtsy. It had been made plain to her that whatever Elaida had been to she and her family in Caemlyn, here Elayne was to treat her with all the deference an Aes Sedai deserved. She tried not to let that rankle. “Elaida Sedai. Do you wish to speak to me?”

“Yes. There is a matter that you should know of.”

“I take it this is your Daughter-Heir, Elaida?” said plump, round-faced woman with long black hair. Her eyes darted over Elayne’s body in a somewhat alarming way. “The talk was true for once.”

Elaida turned her gaze on the other Aes Sedai. They did not channel the Power, naturally, or do anything so crass as strike each other, but nonetheless there was an atmosphere of struggle in the air. “Her fate has been written, Galina,” said Elaida in a quiet voice. “It does not involve you.”

Galina sniffed. She quite deliberately refused to drop her eyes. “Have you had a Foretelling?”

“Many. But I do not choose to speak of them.” Elaida turned back to Elayne, but there was nothing of intimidation in the way she broke Galina’s stare.

There was nothing of kindness in the way she broke the news either. “Your uncle is dead.”

Elayne blinked in momentary confusion. Her mother had no siblings, and the other members of House Trakand were all very distant cousins, none close enough to be called an uncle. On her father’s side she had only aunts. Who did Elaida speak of? Then realisation struck. Her paternal grandfather had had two siblings, one was the infamous Queen Laina Damodred and the other the man who had commanded her armies, Prince Aldecain. Both had died in the Aiel War, of course, but Aldecain had left behind a grown son and a young daughter. In the aftermath of the war the son had clawed his way to the position of High Seat of his much-diminished House.

“Do you mean Lord Barthanes?” she ask, mind whirling. If Barthanes was dead who would take over as High Seat of House Damodred? Lady Caraline? Or one of her own aunts? Innlione, Anvaere or Moiraine? The latter was an Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah, Elayne knew. Would Cairhien accept an Aes Sedai Queen? What would it mean for the political situation there, and more importantly in Andor? Her people had been growing less enamoured of the Tower lately.

“I do indeed,” Elaida was saying. “He was found murdered. Quite gruesomely, according to the report.”

Elayne was not grieved, though it occurred to her that perhaps she should be. Barthanes had been her kinsman, after all. But she had never met him, or any other member of her father’s House. The alliance that the marriage had been intended to foster had proven dissatisfying to both nations. The land that first Queen Mordrellen and later Queen Morgase had hoped to gain on the western bank of the River Alguenya—planned site of a fine new trading town—had never been secured. And House Damodred’s hopes of gaining influence, or control, over the Lion Throne had been firmly quashed. Relations between the Houses had soured since.

“Worse,” Elaida continued, hard-faced and implacable. “Galldria su Riatin  _ Rie _ was assassinated by persons unknown on the very day that Lord Barthanes’ body was found.”

“No doubt by Damodred loyalists, as revenge for his death,” said Javindhra in her harsh voice.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps there is something subtler and more sinister at work,” said Elaida. “Our eyes and ears report that a certain young man was in Cairhien when the murders occurred. A dangerous youth who also visited Caemlyn not long ago. A boy known to associate with, and to be sheltered by, your own aunt, Elayne. Moiraine, of the Blue Ajah. Moiraine ... of House Damodred.”

“Rand al’Thor,” she whispered.  _ What was he doing in Cairhien? He certainly travels far and wide for a shepherd boy _ . She was almost jealous. But whatever Elaida believed, she could not imagine that he had anything to do with the murders of her uncle Barthanes and Queen Galldria. She didn’t say that, of course, it would be pointless to argue the topic with Elaida. Pointless and possibly painful.

Elaida nodded. “War has erupted throughout Cairhien. Damodred and Riatin turn upon one another like rabid dogs and the rest of the Houses grasp and claw for every advantage they can gain from this shift in power. And in all this, the position of High Seat of House Damodred has been left open ...”

“Do you suggest Moiraine thinks to claim it herself?” The speaker was unknown to Elayne. A handsome woman with hair of a very pale yellow.

“I suggest nothing, Tarna,” said Elaida harshly. “I tell you that she is dangerous, and that she does not act in the Tower’s best interests. And that this  _ ta’veren _ she associates with is perhaps as dangerous as she.” She fixed Elayne with a hard stare. “She might try to contact you, to play off your familial connection. She might even use the boy as her proxy in this. If she does you are to come to me immediately. Do you understand? Immediately.”

Elayne found herself feeling uncommonly nervous of a sudden. “I understand, Elaida Sedai.”

The Red sister nodded. “Good. I will deal with Moiraine myself. That is all I have to say to you Novice. Return to your work.”

Elayne curtsied before returning to the appropriate dining hall. She was hungry, but she picked at her food slowly, scarcely tasting what she ate, responding monosyllabically to the few queries her fellow Novices directed towards her. Murder and war in Cairhien. Rand and her aunt, if not involved, then at least present. She hoped he was unharmed. She hoped he had the sense to flee Cairhien and the madness that now consumed it.

With no further classes today she made her way to the guest quarters on swift, eager feet.

Elayne did not trouble to knock on Min’s door. What part of one another had they not already seen? And in close detail at that. She did not dare even imagine what her mother might say—or, worse, Lini!—if they knew the things she and Min had done to one another. They certainly would not have approved of what she had done last night, kneeling on her bed with her bare bottom in the air.  _ Min saw every inch of my private parts then. And kissed them so sweetly _ . It had been a naughty thing to do, she knew that. But it had been even more thrilling than it was embarrassing.

Min was lying on her bed when Elayne burst in. Sadly she was not waiting for her wearing nothing but a cloak and a saucy smile this time. Instead she was wearing a loose white shirt and plain brown trousers and had her nose firmly lodged in a book. She looked up at the banging of the door and gave Elayne a welcoming, if distracted, smile.

“I just heard,” Elayne said. “The rumours are true. Queen Galldria is dead. That makes it a war of succession.”

Min snorted. “Civil war. War of succession. A lot of silly names for the same thing. Do you mind if we don’t talk about it? That’s all we hear lately. War in Falmerden. War on Almoth Plain. Now war in Cairhien. A new false Dragon making war in Saldaea. Most of it is just rumours, anyway. Yesterday, I heard one of the cooks saying she’d heard Artur Hawkwing was marching on Orlay. Artur Hawkwing!”

“Happier news then,” she said as she plopped down on the bed. “Our mysteriously mutual friend, Rand, is alive and well. He was apparently in Cairhien just before the conflict began.”

Min closed her book with a thump. “I see.”

“Do you?” Elayne asked with a raised brow.

Min took her meaning. “Nothing about Cairhien. At least nothing that I understood to be about Cairhien. You know how it is. Idrelle is a cow, by the way.”

“How do ... never mind. But, yes, she is most certainly of the bovine persuasion.”

Min smiled wickedly. “You poor girl. Do you need a hug?”

Elayne laughed. “A hug? Is that what you are angling for, Miss Farshaw? Or could it be you are trying to seduce me?”

“I’ve never tried to seduce anyone in my life!” Min objected. “It just seems to happen on its own. Why, there I was one day just reading a nice book, and some wanton beauty bursts into my room ready to tear my clothes off and have her way with me.”

Elayne gasped in mock-outrage. “Wanton!? I’ll thank you for the other part, but wanton!? I am grievously offended. You shall have to find a way to apologise to me if you hope to continue in my good graces.”

“Maay-be,” Min said, drawing out the word teasingly. Her big, dark eyes were alight with mischief. “What would you ask of me?”

Elayne blushed. “You could start be taking off those trousers.”

Min laughed softly and climbed from the bed. She turned her back to Elayne, unbuckled her belt and bent slightly to push down her trousers and underwear both.

She really did have a lovely bottom; such pronounced curves were particularly eye-catching when paired with her slender body. Elayne had told her as much before, and Min, despite her girlish objections, had taken the words to heart. She wiggled her bum from side to side as she undressed and then looked over her shoulder at Elayne, a finger pressed coquettishly to her lips.

Elayne giggled. Min was simply too cute to resist. She hopped from the bed and threw her arms around her, not sure herself if it was a hug or a kiss she was aiming for. It ended up being a bit of both. Min’s lips on hers were playful at first, but it didn’t take long for that now-familiar hunger to infuse them.

Min’s hand was on her bottom, squeezing her, sending delightful shivers through her body. Soon she had Elayne’s novice dress bunched up around her hips and together the two girls worked to rid her of her underwear.

Their passions grew swiftly and demanded release. In moments they were back on the bed, still clad in shirt and dress, but hips and legs bared to eager sight. And touch. They spread their legs around each other and pressed their private parts together. Twin moans sounded as each girl began rubbing herself against the other.

Elayne pursued her release with wanton abandon, despite her objections to the word. She drank in the sight of Min’s pretty face and the passion and love that was written there. She savoured, too, the contrast of Min’s healthily tan legs and her own pale ones, of Min’s glistening black curls tangled with her own reddish bush. Their juices flowed from them and mixed together. Elayne had never been wetter outside of her bath.

She came quickly and she came hard. Waves of pleasure surged through her body taking all the day’s pains and petty troubles and carrying them off, leaving her stretched out on the bed, moaning softly with a glad smile on her lips.

Min was watching her face and grinning. Elayne smiled back at her lovingly as the other girl continued rubbing herself against Elayne’s slack body.

It took Min somewhat longer to reach her peak, but that was no hardship. Elayne enjoyed watching her. She trailed her fingers back and forth along Min’s legs and whispered sweet encouragements to her lover. And when at last Min cried out Elayne’s name and came against her sex she grinned at her and told her, truthfully, that she loved her.

There were only a few weeks of Maighdal left before autumn officially started, but as she fell asleep in Min’s arms that night it seemed to Elayne that the summer would never end.


	21. Talents

CHAPTER 46: Talents

The Amyrlin Seat helped immensely with Nynaeve’s training. Just having been in the same room as the woman kept her angry enough to channel for hours afterward. Two months Mat had been in a coma. Two months! And all the while Nynaeve worried herself sick over him, and asked herself daily whether she could have done better if only she knew who to use her ability to channel. She threw herself into her studies, and even tried not to snap at the Aes Sedai, or clout those annoying Accepted on their ears. She had been model student, though that hadn’t stopped the Light-cursed sisters from sending her to that wretched Sheriam on a regular basis. And now this.

“Delve first!” snapped a high-pitched voice.

“I know,” Nynaeve growled.

Dagdara Finchey reminded her of Alsbet Luhhan, but without Alsbet’s endearing personality. She glared at Nynaeve. “Is it to be the Mistress of Novices again then?”

Nynaeve swallowed her ire and muttered a gracious apology.

“We really must find a way to break your block, child,” said Joyce. “Until we do this need to be angry will colour all your actions here.”

The plump Shienaran, Berenicia Morsad, nodded. “It is an unfortunate situation. Calm and grace are every bit as much the hallmarks of Aes Sedai as our ability to channel. Yet if you cannot channel without being angry ...”

The man lying on the table, there in that sparse, white-walled room, looked back and forth between the three Yellow sisters and the furious Accepted. His eyes showed white all the way around. A Tar Valoni dock-worker, Noam had twisted his leg in an accident and come to the Tower to ask for Healing so he could get back to work quicker. She doubted he had expected to be used for practice.

She put her hand on his leg and Delved him. She had learned to tell the difference between the Five Powers, to feel and even see how distinct they were. Channelling the One Power involved taking those elements and weaving them together in various ways. Delving was a weave that allowed her to tell the physical condition of whoever she touched, the better to know how to Heal them. If she could Heal. Not all channelers could, some specific weaves you needed to have a certain Talent to form, and those you were either born with or not. Nynaeve dearly hoped Healing was among hers, or all of this would have been practically for nothing. Delving was not a Talent; it was a relatively simple thing, involving the use of Spirit alone, and through it she could see that Noam was as healthy as an ox, except for the painfully twisted muscles in his leg.

“Very good,” said Joyce. She watched Nynaeve carefully, and the glow of  _ saidar _ surrounded her. If she did anything to endanger the man’s life, Joyce would intervene. Nynaeve would never have admitted it, but that was a comforting thought. “Now, meld the flows, exactly as you were shown.”

She let the One Power course through her, a frighteningly thrilling sensation, and wove Water, Air and Spirit together, just so. The flows melded seamlessly, and Nynaeve felt a wonderful sense of completeness. Had she not had the Talent, the weave simply would not have formed no matter how much effort or Power she poured into it.  _ I am a Healer, thank the Light _ . Noam jerked on the table and gasped loudly as his body reacted to the sudden realignment of its damaged parts. She had the feeling that she could do more, the feeling that there was something wrong with the weave she had formed, but Dagdara interrupted.

“Release the Source, Accepted. It seems you have a Talent for Healing, and a not-insignificant one.”

“An understatement, perhaps,” murmured Joyce, with a small smile on her softly-wrinkled face. The white-haired woman had all the kindness that Dagdara lacked, though the bigger, younger Aes Sedai was reputedly the better Healer.

Nynaeve did not need to release the Source as Dagdara had instructed. She was so pleased by the discovery of her Talent that she had forgotten to be angry. The One Power winked out, leaving behind that disturbing sense of hunger. She hated that feeling, and tried her best to ignore it. It was entirely too reminiscent of a drunkard’s need for his next tankard of ale. Still though, much as she might want to rail at anyone, herself included, who channelled the One Power, it was difficult to find the ire when faced with such a wonder.

Noam sat up and flexed his leg, his perfectly repaired. “It feels as good as new! Thank you Sisters. The Light shine on the White Tower, and on the Aes Sedai,” he said, bobbing his head between the three Yellows and Nynaeve.  _ No herb could have done that _ , Nynaeve was forced to admit.

The Aes Sedai received his praise with slight nods that said it was no more than was due. A male servant appeared and offered Noam a shoulder to lean on as the man shuffled from the sickroom. “I feel so hungry,” she heard him whisper. That was the price of a Healing, she had been taught. The body used up its own reserves to replace whatever had been damaged.

“Perhaps there will be a place for you in the Yellow Ajah someday, Nynaeve,” Berenicia said.

Nynaeve’s mouth opened and closed. It would have been more than ungracious to tell the woman she wanted nothing to do with Aes Sedai, even as she asked them to teach her more. In the end she could manage no more than a gruff, “Maybe.”

It wasn’t the Yellow sisters who truly deserved her ire she thought, as she made her way back across the walled compound that contained the White Tower and its supporting buildings. The situation with Mat was bad enough, but when she had asked the Amyrlin for news of Rand, Perrin and Anna she had been sent from the room with harsh orders not to speak of them again. That worried her. She had no idea what had become of them after they visited Cairhien more than a month ago. That they had even been there she knew only because of Min. The Amyrlin would tell her nothing and, worse, Nynaeve was starting to wonder if even  _ she _ knew where Rand and the others were, or if they were still alive.

Min was a strange one. Nynaeve didn’t understand why she had taken it into her head to befriend her, but the girl seemed to make a point of visiting her at least once a week. She was perfectly pleasant, shrugging off all Nynaeve’s barbs with no more than a wry smile. And then showing up again later, acting as if it were inevitable that Nynaeve would welcome her. Truthfully she had nothing against Min ... it was just strange.

_ Or maybe I’m the strange one _ . It wasn’t that implausible, sadly. She had lost touch with almost all the friends of her girlhood after becoming Wisdom of Emond’s Field. Nela Thane was the only one who still had kind words for her, and even Nela had the sense to keep them private.

_ It would be nice to have someone here to talk to. Someone who won’t go running to tell tales to Sheriam _ .

She knew where Min stayed, but once she arrived at the nondescript door she hesitated. It would be quite embarrassing if she knocked on the door only to find that the girl had finally gotten sick of her. She still thought of her as a girl, though in truth she was only two years her junior.  _ Start by thinking of her as a grown woman at least _ . She drew a deep breath and rapped her knuckles on the smooth planks.

When she found Nynaeve waiting on her doorstep, Min’s brows rose in surprise. “What can I do for you, Nynaeve?” She shrugged in her easy way. “Come on in if you like.”

Her room was bigger than those given to Novices, but smaller than the room Nynaeve had been granted once she had been raised to the Accepted. Books littered the cramped space, but there were no dirty dishes or discarded clothes scattered around. She might dress like a boy, but Min had at least that much of a woman’s sense.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Nynaeve said stiffly.

Min laughed lightly, a knowing glint in her dark eyes. “Any time. How’s the training going? Are the Aes Sedai treating you well?”

“Well enough.”

“Rather you than me, I have to admit. I don’t think I could put up with what I’ve seen the Novices here put up with. I’d be stowing away on the first ship to anywhere not named Tar Valon.”

“You could handle it, if you wanted to,” Nynaeve allowed. “You have a lot of patience. Probably even more than me.”

“High praise,” Min drawled. “Though I suppose it’s true that accepting the inevitable is very like me.” She wore that wry, knowing smile again.

“It isn’t so easy for some.”

Min eyed her shrewdly. “I’ll tell you what. If you ever feel the need to vent about the Sisters you can come here. I promise I won’t tell any of them what you say.”

Gratitude washed over Nynaeve. Much more than she had expected to feel. “Thank you. I ... I think I would like that. Actually.”

She began pacing the short length of the room. Min sat down on her bed and tucked her legs under her, watching Nynaeve, waiting.

“Do you know what they say about Mat?” she asked at last. “They say there’s no way of knowing. That Delving him reveals no sign of injury. He will simply wake when he wakes. If he wakes, I say. Who knows what damage they might have done to him? He might spend the rest of his life in that sickbed, wasting away while servants dribble soup down his neck.”

“He won’t,” Min muttered. She rubbed her chin with her hand, trying and failing to hide her grimace.

“Kind words. But kind words don’t heal head injuries.”

Min slumped forward and let out a long sigh. “This is going to sound crazy,” she said slowly, after a long pause, “but bear with me. You don’t need to fear for Mat’s life. I can’t say he won’t have taken injury from what’s happened, but I can tell you for a fact that he will wake from his coma eventually. I’ve had a viewing of it.”

Nynaeve stopped pacing and frowned down at the woman.  _ What kind of talk is that? _ “You can say for a fact? Because of a ... viewing? Is this some kind of joke?”

“I’ve sometimes wondered that myself,” Min said softly. “But if it is, it’s the Pattern that’s playing the prank, not me.” She looked Nynaeve right in the eyes and said, “I can see the future. Other people’s futures anyway, parts of them. When I look at folk there are sometimes images and auras swirling around them that only I can see. They represent things that will happen, will inevitably happen, no matter what I or they or anyone tries to do to stop it. Sometimes I even know the meaning of the images, though not often.”

Nynaeve eyed the woman dubiously. What she was saying seemed insane, and half a year ago she would probably have held her down and dosed her for her own good ... But half a year ago she would not have known she could channel the One Power, would not have travelled the Ways or met the Green Man. “Where did you learn this supposed ability,” she asked cautiously.

Min sighed again. “I didn’t. I started seeing the images when I was still a little girl. And, stupidly, I told people what I knew. They laughed at first, thinking it was just a child’s fancy. But when the things I predicted came true ... Well, it got a little ugly. I prefer it if people don’t know about my ability now.”

“I can understand that,” Nynaeve said slowly. “But why tell me?”

“Because when you passed through Baerlon Moiraine asked me to take a look at your party and tell her what I saw. And the things I saw around Mat haven’t happened yet,” Min shrugged. “My viewings have never failed before. Maybe it’s arrogant of me to think they never will, but short of the Dark One getting free and destroying the entire Pattern I can’t think of anything that could prevent Mat’s destiny from being fulfilled. He will wake up, I promise you.”

Nynaeve was quiet for a time. “I want to believe you. I want to trust you,” she said at last.

Min smiled that wry, knowing smile. “You will.”


	22. A Cunning Plan

CHAPTER 49: A Cunning Plan

Their staffs clacked together in a rapid beat. Despite the brisk autumn wind, both men were sweating heavily. Jan had several inches of height on him, ten years more experience, and a great deal more muscle, but Mat was resolved not to lose this time. He side-stepped, levelled out and feinted for the Warder’s chin before jabbing the butt of his quarterstaff at the man’s foot.

Jan was quicker than you’d think he’d be, given his size. But then, most Warders were faster than normal. Unnaturally so, Mat had come to suspect.  _ That Warder bond does things to you, things the Aes Sedai don’t like to talk about _ . He told himself that trick would have been the match against anyone but a Warder, but Jan’s foot slipped out of the way of his attack and his counter slammed Mat right in the ribs. Quick-handed as he was, he was able to avoid the Warder’s attempt to crack his knuckles but that meant partially releasing his grip on the staff. From there it was a simple thing for Jan to disarm him.  _ Again, burn me for a poxy goat _ . He cursed aloud as he watched his stick spin away.

Jan grounded his practice staff. The long spear he usually carried was waiting on the rack nearby, along with his coat, shirt and that eye-wrenching cloak. “Well fought, Mat. You’re getting faster by the day.”

Mat stooped to retrieve his staff. He had rebuilt much of the fitness the Aes Sedai’s Healing had cost him, but that just meant he was as wiry as usual. No amount of work, and no matter what Nynaeve and the rest of the women around Emond’s Field liked to say, Mat Cauthon did work, but no amount of it ever seemed to put the kind of bulk on him that Perrin, or even Rand built up. He was as fit as he’d ever been. But not fit enough for the Aes Sedai to let him go. They persisted with the excuse that he was ill and needed watching, but he knew that for a lie. Aes Sedai couldn’t lie, but somehow they still did. All his attempts to escape Tar Valon had ended in failure.

“Not fast enough,” he muttered.

“But much, much better than when I first met you, honey,” said Jan cheerfully. “You’re looking as fit as a fiddle now.”

“Thanks,” said Mat, uninvitingly. He knew Jan fancied him, and had briefly considered indulging with him. The man was fine-featured despite his bulk, and one of the few Warders with the sense to realise a sword wasn’t the only type of weapon worth wielding. But he was also firmly in the camp that thought the Aes Sedai were the Creator’s personal emissaries, and that sort of talk got right on Mat’s nerves. He might have been able to tolerate it in small doses, but in the month he’d been trapped here he’d heard almost nothing but praise for the sisters and constant advice about how best to please them. It all boiled down to doing whatever they said and bending double when one walked by. Mat was sick of it.  _ Oh thank you my wondrous, beauteous Aes Sedai Lady. Thank you for locking me up for no bloody reason. Thank you for whatever it is you’re plotting to use me for. I’m ever so pleased to serve _ .

Sour-faced, he stalked over to the bench and retrieved his shirt. Choren wasn’t even over yet, but it was getting cold already. He had a feeling it would be another hard winter.

Jan gave a little sigh, sensing his mood. “Well, Nesune Sedai is expecting me. Same time tomorrow?”

Mat blew out a breath and tried to find his manners. “Sure. Looking forward to it.”

He trailed Jan across the practice yard but the Warder soon outpaced him. Mat had nowhere he needed to be after all and no reason not to drag his feet.  _ I could try the docks again _ . But that would mean finding a way past the guards on the inner gates. The Amyrlin had given orders that Mat was to prevented from speaking to any more ship captain, in case one proved less respectful of the Tower’s decrees than the native Tar Valoni were. It was a damn shame, too, that Illianer fellow had looked a prospect. But by now he’d probably be several days sailing downriver.

Scattered knots of fighters sparred on the field, which was the case almost every hour of the day. Ihvon and Owein, Valreio and Andoran respectively, looked evenly matched. They were bonded to the same Aes Sedai, too, from what he’d gathered. A Green sister. Only the Greens were allowed to have more than one Warder at a time. And the Reds weren’t allowed any.

Beyond them, Marlesh was having a hard time of it against Lan Kai, who shared a name if not a temperament with Moiraine’s grim protector. The slender, black-haired man smiled toothily as his practice sword struck Marlesh on knee and neck in quick succession.

He passed Gawyn Trakand on his way but didn’t pause to speak. He would have if his sister Elayne had been there with him. He’d seen her hanging around with Nynaeve a time or two and she was undoubtedly a pretty one, even if she did have her nose in the air half the time. They hadn’t spoken much, but he had made certain to refuse to call her “my Lady”. Not that she had demanded it, actually, but still.

_ Else should be out of her class soon _ . A lengthy tumble was just what he needed to cheer him up. He’d been setting her plump bottom and ample breasts to jiggling nearly every night of the last month. It was the only good thing about his enforced stay here.

Else preferred to visit him in the room he stayed in, the same room he’d woken up in after his illness. He couldn’t blame her, having seen the cramped cells the Novices were kept in. He made his way back there to wait for her. As usual, a tray of food had been left on the dresser. Else and Nynaeve were expected to go down to the kitchens and fetch their own food, but Mat Cauthon, the prisoner, got his delivered by servants. It was weird. But then, it was Aes Sedai work.

They hadn’t told him when his father had come looking for him. It was only because of Else’s love of gossip that Mat had even heard his da had been here.

According to her a man named Abell Candwin and another named Tam al’Thor had come to the Tower a while back and made nuisances of themselves until they gained an audience with the Amyrlin Seat. Apparently they had quickly been sent packing by the Sanche woman, and all their questions about a certain group of missing youths had gone unanswered. For all Mat knew, his da might think he was dead. If he knew Mat was in the very Tower he had just visited there was no way he would have left so soon.

“Bloody Aes Sedai,” he muttered.

He juggled his dice while he waited, whistling a tune and looking, still, for an angle. He waited a long time, bored, restless, frustrated. He was still waiting when the city outside his windows grew dark. Eventually he realise that she wouldn’t be coming tonight.

“Blood and ashes,” he cursed, snatching his dice from the air and stuffing them into their cups. Maybe the Aes Sedai had worked her particularly hard and she’d been too exhausted to make the climb. He knew she hadn’t grown bored with him ... Else wasn’t shy about what she wanted.

He didn’t see Else anywhere the next day either. Though he spied several wagons rolling down the Ostrein Bridge, bound for Braem Pass and Andor. The guards looked inside each wagon bed, but not underneath. He wondered how hard it would be to cling to the underside of a wagon bed for the time it would take to approach the gate, endure the inspection, and trundle down that long bridge.  _ Maybe if I tied myself to it somehow ... _

He went to bed alone, but hopeful.

The next day he visited the Alindaer Bridge instead and watched with mounting dismay as the guards checked over every wagon, inside and underneath. As he was making his way back to the White Tower he felt his skin prickle every time someone glanced his way.  _ They must be having me followed. That or the Aes Sedai really can read a man’s mind _ .

When Else didn’t visit him that night he began to grow concerned.

“It is not your, or any man’s, business what passes between the Aes Sedai and their students, boy,” said the Amyrlin when he approached her in the morning. He had chosen his moment carefully, waiting until there was no-one in earshot except the ever-present Keeper. He knew enough to know she would never let him get a word in if there was anyone around to see it. Even so Leane had looked ready to take his head off, with the Power or with that staff she carried, when he stepped into their path.

“I’m not looking to interrupt anyone’s chores, Mother,” he said with his most charming grim. “They might decide to fob them off on me, after all. I’m just wondering where Miss Grinwell has gotten to. I haven’t seen her about these last few days.”

“You dare question the Amyrlin Seat? Even queens on their thrones and generals surrounded by their armies are not so bold, or so foolish,” declared Leane haughtily.

The Amyrlin grunted. She looked at Mat with her cold, knowing eyes. “This once I will allow it. Else Grinwell is no longer in the White Tower, my son. She could have learned, had she applied herself, but all she wanted was to smile at the men at the Warders’ practice yard. She did not have the makings of an Aes Sedai. She could not meet the standards we expect of our initiates. Else Grinwell was put on a trading vessel and sent back to her mother five days ago.”

Mat gaped in confusion. “I see,” he said, slowly. “Well. I’m sure her parents will be glad to see her.” He gave himself a shake and essayed a small laugh. “Thank you, Mother. I’m half surprised my own parents have not come looking for me. My da’s the kind of man who would.” He was not sure, but he thought there was a small hesitation before the Amyrlin answered.

“He did come. Leane spoke to him.”

The Keeper took it up immediately. “We did not know where you were then, Mat. I told him so, and he left before the weather could turn. I gave him some gold to make the journey home easier.”

“No doubt,” the Amyrlin said, “he will be pleased to hear from you. And your mother will, certainly. Give me the letter when you have written it, and I will see to its delivery.” That she would read it herself first was pretty certain in Mat’s estimation.

They had told him, but he had had to ask. And they didn’t mention Rand’s da _. Maybe because they didn’t think I would care, and maybe because ... Burn me, I don’t know. Who can tell with Aes Sedai? _ He wished he had thought to ask Else exactly when his da had visited. She had been pretty vague about it and Mat wasn’t sure he believed Leane’s claim of not knowing where Mat was at the time. She had come to Fal Dara with the Amyrlin and met Mat there, so she’d have had to have met his da before she left for Shienar. Could his da have reached Tar Valon so quickly, and with Tam al’Thor for company, too? The last Mat had heard, Tam had been at death’s door after the Trolloc attack and wasn’t fit to be riding anywhere ...

Frustration drove Mat to poke at his friendly jailor. “I was travelling with a friend, Mother. Rand al’Thor. You remember him. Do you know if he is all right? I’ll bet his da is worried, too.”

“As far as I know,” the Amyrlin said smoothly, “the boy is well enough, but who can say? I have seen him only once, when I met you in Fal Dara.” She turned on her heel and walked away.

Mat trudged back to his room, scowling. Obviously it would take more than a plea from his parents to get him out of this mess. Not that he’d been hoping for his da to rescue him, of course. Mat Cauthon could deal with his own problems. It would just have speeded things up in a welcome manner, that’s all.

_ They sent Else away for what? Looking at boys? _ Sleeping with Mat maybe? He hadn’t exactly been hiding what they were up to. He slammed the door shut, not caring who heard, and flopped onto his bed. He’d grown a bit fond of Else; she was fun and uncomplicated. Now she was gone, and he hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye. He didn’t understand it. The Aes Sedai had seemed happy enough to have her. She’d told him there was a shortage of women who could learn to channel nowadays, so why would the Aes Sedai throw away a girl who could? Just because of an interest in men? Was that so terrible a thing that it could rule you out of becoming Aes Sedai?

Mat turned the idea around in his head, looking at it from every angle. A cunning smile slowly grew on his face. If he could not escape from the White Tower, then perhaps he could make the White Tower desperate to be rid of him ...

Abell Candwin, his father, had always claimed that a smart trader had to know the person he was selling to. The same rule could be applied to all sorts of things. Mat applied it well over the next few days. The Novices and Accepted in the White Tower did not often cross his path; his meals were brought up to his room, and he certainly wasn’t attending any of their classes. Training with the odd Warder like Jan was the sum of Mat’s education. But that didn’t mean he was forbidden from wandering about the Tower, at least on the lower levels. Since he had nothing better to do, he spent his time watching the pretty girls in their sadly plain dresses, living their sadly controlled lives, and refined his plan.

He saw a lot during his wanderings. There was plenty of frustration among the students here, and plenty of jealousy, too. Plump, blue-eyed Mair was jealous of the slender Taraboner Asseil. Lanky Lucilde was jealous of tiny Alvistere who was in turn jealous of pretty little Shimoku. Yellow-haired Paege was jealous of everyone, and everyone was jealous of Elayne, a fact she seemed very aware of, from the way she walked around with her nose in the air.

Some, like Pedra, Coride and Kossete, seemed painfully sheltered; he worried they might faint if he were to goose them. Others such as Marah from Murandy or the tall Domani Namene, had a mischievous look about then, as though they might goose him right back.

He saw frustrated boredom in the braided Arafellin, Ashara. Marith, also from Murandy, might have felt the same once, but she’d turned her frustrations into a habit of making cutting remarks about her fellow students; a habit that had left her isolated and perhaps lonely.

Ilyena had a tongue as sharp as Marith’s but was more popular, in no small part due to her friendship with the tough-looking Daniele. Somehow he didn’t fancy his chances with those two.

Faolain and Theodrin looked challenging, too, if for very different reasons. Theodrin seemed quite at home in the Tower and accepted the demands the Aes Sedai placed on her with quiet grace. Dark Faolain, on the other hand, seemed to meet everything in life with the same glower. Neither seemed likely to welcome his advances, at least not at first.

From what he could tell none of them seemed able to decide what they thought of Nynaeve. He heard little that was complimentary about her. And saw little of her, for that matter. She didn’t seem to like being seen in that white dress and went out of her way to avoid him when they happened upon each other. Mat doubted she would have been willing to help him escape anyway.

He spotted an opening on the fifth day of his scouting mission. Lucile was commiserating with Alvistere over something that Shimoku had said during their class, but the pale little Cairhienin girl was not responding. Eventually Lucilde wandered off, leaving Alvistere to sulk on a cold stone bench in the very garden where Mat lounged.

He picked a flower, a pretty pink one, and made his approach. “Is Shimoku still picking on you?” Mat asked with a sympathetic smile.

Alvistere gave a start. Sitting very stiffly, she watched him out of the corners of her dark, slightly-tilted eyes.

“Try not to let it get to you. Where she came from she was used to being the prettiest girl in the room. It can’t be easy for her,” Mat added with a small, knowing sigh. He strolled by her bench, turning the flower by its stem and made his way slowly towards the arched exit.

“What do you mean?” a shy voice said, well before he had reached the door. He turned back, well-pleased with the result.

“Well. You know. How could she not be jealous of you, given how lovely you look? She probably doesn’t intend to be mean, she just can’t help herself.”

A smile slowly spread across Alvistere’s face. She didn’t seem to know how to respond but she was obviously enjoying the compliments.

“Shimoku is jealous of me?” she repeated, fishing for more. He gave her what she wanted.

Mat grinned his best grin. “Of course. Just look at that pretty blush. Why, it’s almost the same colour as this flower.” Boldly he leant in and tucked the smooth stem of the flower behind her ear. Alvistere blinked rapidly and gave a promising little shiver.

He wondered how often, if at all, she had the chance to interact with boys here in the Tower.  _ Best not to push too hard _ . “Try not to let it get you down. It’s a crying shame to see you being sad.” With a final smile he left the garden and made it a point to avoid Alvistere for the rest of the day.

He found her in the same garden the next afternoon. She tried to pretend she hadn’t been waiting for him, and Mat pretended to be fooled. She shared her opinions on the many shortcomings of her fellow Novices and he agreed with every one of them while flattering her shamelessly. She got a flower for her other ear before he left, and he got a pretty smile.

He stole his first kiss on the week’s “anniversary” of their meeting. She went limp in his arms and he decided to be forceful. By the time he came up for air she was red-faced and stunned-looking.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he claimed the next day, when he tracked her down in one of the Tower’s many marbled hallways.

She looked troubled, and more distracted than usual. “I ... I can’t stop thinking about you either,” she confessed.

“I’m so relieved to hear that,” he sighed. He looked around them dramatically, then pulled her into the nearest alcove for a good canoodle. She kissed him back more energetically this time. All throughout that day he made a point of happening upon her whenever she had a free moment ... and whenever there was a quiet spot nearby.

Three days later he told her, with a glum face, that he wished he could see her more often, and asked what it was she did when they were apart. And where she stayed at night. She stared at him for a long while, her mouth hanging slightly open and that dazed look in her eyes. Then she showed him.

He had her for the first time the next night. As it turned out, it was her first time, too.

Alvistere lay on her back on the narrow bed, naked save for her white stockings, as Mat slid his cock in and out of her sweet little pussy. He ran his fingers through the hair—as straight, black and glossy as that on her head—that covered her sex and made sure to give her a good rubbing as he fucked her. He needed to make sure she enjoyed herself if he was to escape. Her breasts were small and firm and tipped by little brown nipples, and they barely moved, even under his hardest thrusts. Neither did the girl they belonged to. She lay with her arms raised as if in surrender and made surprised little yelping sounds, as though she wasn’t sure what was happening or what to do. He held her by her narrow hips and grinned at the way her slender legs kicked at nothing every time he pushed his cock into her.

It didn’t take very long before she was clamping her hands over her mouth and trying to muffle a surprised wail. She jerked on the bed and her sex clamped around him almost painfully. After a long pause Alvistere went limp. Or limper than she had been.  _ Else wouldn’t have just lain there _ , he couldn’t help but think. But that was done now. Mat, his work finished, increased the pace of his thrusts until at last he was ready to fill the Novice with his seed.

Alvistere stared down at herself when she felt him spurting within her. “What ... what was?” she began breathlessly. “What did you do?”

Mat grinned and shook his head. He patted her on the cheek and settled himself down on the bed beside her. He wasn’t about to explain the birds and the bees. Though, if she and the rest of the Novices were truly that sheltered, then the Amyrlin Seat would soon have ample reason to want to see the back of Matrim Cauthon.


	23. Decisions Made

CHAPTER 50: Decisions Made

“You should know better than to intrude where you aren’t welcome,” growled Marah.

“Oh, I was welcome. Very welcome as it happens,” replied Namene, thrusting out her chin as best she could, weak thing that it was.

Marah’s lips thinned and her cheeks went white with fury. “Not by me.”

“So?”

Elayne strode by the other Novices with her chin raised, studiously not looking their way. Marah thought herself funny and had a cutting remark ready at almost all times, and Namene had a habit of giggling at everything, no matter how inane, a habit that passed from quirky to maddening when you were forced to live with her for months at a time. She was not friends with either girl, but she would have welcomed their usual smirks and titters if it would end this bickering.

She left the Novice Quarters at a fast walk and shut the door behind her with perhaps a little more force than was needed. She trusted Marah and Namene would not be so foolish as to actually strike one another, certainly not over something so silly as a boy. Especially  _ that _ boy.

_ Name the Dark One and he will appear _ , she thought.

In a secluded corner of the garden, Mat Cauthon was leaning in to whisper something in Anemara’s ear, one hand supporting his weight against the wall and the other resting lightly on her hip. Whatever he said, it brought a nervous laugh from the plump Ghealdanin Novice. Who, come to think of it, bore a certain resemblance to a plump Arafellin Accepted named Mair who had, for reasons unknown, been sent to do penance on a remote farm last week.

Elayne sniffed. She supposed Mat had a certain roguish charm, though he was hardly the most eye-catching of men. More important than that, and much more damning, was his utter lack of sincerity. She could not believe that the same Novices and Accepted who saw fit to prod and test her at every turn, convinced she was too naive and sheltered to meet their challenges, could fail so utterly to see through his plot.  _ I may not know much of men, but I know  _ Daes Dae’mar _ when I see it _ .

She shook her head and set off towards the guest quarters, wondering if she should interfere before someone’s feelings got too badly hurt.

Her own studies were proceeding excellently, unhindered by such drama, with Min’s comforting presence ever at her back. She smiled to herself. Often literally at her back. She had fallen asleep the night before with her shift bunched up and Min cuddled against her, having just stirred her passions with her clever fingers. Exhausted from her day’s work, her last memory before sleep stole up on her was of protesting sleepily of the need to reciprocate Min’s efforts, and her dearest friend’s laughing denial of the debt.  _ I’ll make it up to her, no matter what she says _ .

Being gifted with Min’s love was the best thing that had ever happened to Elayne. Even Nynaeve’s addition to their social circle had not been as onerous as Elayne had first feared when Min finally won her over. Oh the woman could certainly be abrasive, she had a terrible temper and a rough tongue. But there was a core of decency to her, a passionate drive to help and heal that made it easy—or easier, at least—to overlook her frequent outbursts. She and Mat didn’t seem particularly friendly, but she still worried ceaselessly for him, claiming that he could never stand being cooped up for long and that his captivity here in the Tower would not be good for him. That he was a captive was hard to deny. It had been more than two months since he awoke from his coma but, despite his obvious desire to leave, the bridges and docks remained barred to him.

Daniele and Ilyena were getting along with Nynaeve rather less easily than Elayne and Min did. Daniele was every bit as strong willed as her, and whilst Ilyena was even-tempered for the most part, her tongue was perhaps even more cutting than Nynaeve’s, and she look a wicked delight in using it.

Gawyn was quite taken with the Volsuni. She would have to be careful in guiding him clear of that pitfall. Whilst Daniele had stolen many a glance at Galad when she thought no-one was looking, her pillow-friend seemed to have no interest in men at all. She had been concerned enough—and perhaps, if she was honest with herself, nosey enough—to ask Min if she’d had any viewings of their new friends. She’d regretted asking once Min sighed glumly and began describing Daniele atop a winged horse and holding a lance of all things; Ilyena pulling a sword out of her own heart but somehow surviving; and Nynaeve with a man’s ring of heavy gold. Min didn’t like to talk about what she saw, and so Elayne tried not to pester her with questions, no matter how curious she was. It was such a unique and fascinating ability though, like the girl who possessed it.

She was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn’t notice anyone approaching. She came to an abrupt halt when she felt a light pinch on her bottom and jumped involuntarily. Shocked and embarrassed, she spun around.

Her assailant, their dark eyes alight with mischief and short hair in need of a brush, grinned at her reaction.

“I’m sorry,” they lied, “but you just looked so lovely wandering by like that, and I knew your reaction would be every bit as cute as it was. I couldn’t help myself. Can you forgive me? I’ll do anything I can to make it up to you.”

She raised her chin and made her voice cold. “I do not believe I can. Forgive you, that is, Master Cauthon. How dare you lay hands upon my person!?”

Mat grinned. “A beautiful girl like you must have been fighting them off constantly back in Caemlyn. Or were the boys there not bold enough? If I’d been around I’d have had to fight a constant battle with myself to keep from kissing you.” He leaned in as he spoke and his gaze drifted from her eyes to her lips; he bit his own in an admittedly fetching manner. “I was thinking. Per—”

“You may stop thinking right now, Master Cauthon,” she interrupted. Fetching? Perhaps. Slightly. But Offensive? Absolutely! Did he think her stupid enough to become another one of his conquests? “And if you do not step back this instant, or ever presume to touch me without my leave again, I do believe I shall have you gelded.”

His grin curled up and died. He stepped back, hands spread wide. “There’s no need to get upset. I just thought you were pretty, that’s all.”

“It is not all,” she said coldly. “You thought I was foolish enough to allow you to use me in your plot to make the Amyrlin Seat throw you out of the Tower. And you cared not one whit for any consequences there might have been for me if I had in fact been that foolish.” She raised an eyebrow. “Is that not so?”

He adopted a look of innocence. “I have no idea what you are talking about. Can’t a man just flirt with a pretty woman?”

“No. Leave me.”

He left, looking sulky and aggrieved. Only when he turned the corner of the hall and passed from sight did she let out her pent breath. Elayne trembled with emotions she had no name for. She let out a vexingly high-pitched growl as she stalked down the hall.  _ That outrageous cad! How dare he? _ No man had ever presumed to lay hands on her before. And Mat bloody Cauthon just saunters up and acts like he could do whatever he wanted to her. She was still trembling with outrage when she arrived at Nynaeve’s room.

Nynaeve glared at her when the door banged open but she did not stop striding up and down in front of the small fireplace, or say anything beyond asking, rather oddly, if Elayne had been born in a barn. She wore the Serpent ring given to the Accepted, and her white dress had the coloured rings encircling the hem, but unlike the other Accepted she was not allowed to try to teach anyone yet and so often found herself with idle time. More often than not she spent that time in Min’s company, as now. Her brothers were there as well. They would have more than words for Mat Cauthon if she told them of her encounter with him, but Elayne didn’t want to make a fuss. She was perfectly capable of settling her own problems, and needed no-one’s protection.

As it would not do to say the things she wanted to say about Mat in front of his fellow Therener, or Gawyn and Galad, Elayne was forced to swallow her ire.

Min was sitting on the three-legged stool watching Nynaeve pace. She looked glum, but she perked up at the sight of Elayne.

“There you are,” she said, rising from her stool. For a moment Elayne thought she would rush over and kiss her, but she shot a glance towards the others and, quite properly, settled for a welcoming smile instead. “How have you been?”

“Well enough. I saw Logain earlier this morning,” Elayne said, since she was denied the rant she wanted. “He was sitting on a bench in the Inner Court, crying. He ran when he saw me. I cannot help feeling sorry for him.”

Min shrugged. “Better he cries than the rest of us,” she said.

Galad shook his head is disapproval. Which was something Elayne had already been too used to seeing by the time she was six. “Setting aside the matter of his channelling, consider the lives that were lost in Ghealdan as a result of his actions. Throughout Andoran history queens have hanged men for lesser crimes. Logain Ablar has been afforded a gentler fate that he deserved.”

“I know what he is,” Elayne snapped. “Or rather, what he was. He isn’t anymore, and I can feel sorry for him if I want.”

Nynaeve shuddered at her words, though the tiny fire on the narrow hearth handily kept the Sholdine chill at bay. Elayne was not sure it would serve so well when winter came. She was glad she would have Min to warm her bed. And glad, too, that they could visit this early. Novices were usually kept too busy to spend much time visiting friends, but today was a freeday, only the third since she had come to the White Tower.

“I hope you aren’t saying you’d have let him get away with it, Elayne,” Gawyn said. “Mother certainly would not.”

She had no doubt that he was right about that. “I would not repeal his sentence, of course,” she clarified. “I simply don’t like to see him suffer.”

Nynaeve kept pacing. And shivering.

“You raise an interesting point, Elayne,” Galad said in that insufferably superior way of his. “Is it cruelty to Gentle men like Ablar, but then leave them alive? A noose might well be the cleaner solution to them.”

“Enough,” Nynaeve said growled. Galad and Gawyn opened their mouths. She raised her voice. “I said enough!” She glared at them until it was clear their silence would hold, then went on. “I’m tired of listening to your gossip. Now, this is my room, not the common room of an inn, and I want you out of it.”

“But, Nynaeve—” Gawyn began.

Nynaeve spoke loudly enough to drown him out. “I doubt you asked permission to enter the Accepted’s quarters.” He and Galad stared at her, looking surprised. “I thought not. You will be out of my room, out of my sight, before I count three, or I will write a note to the Master of Arms about this. Coulin Gaidin has a much stronger arm than Sheriam Sedai, and you may be assured that I will be there to see he makes a proper job of it.”

“Nynaeve, you wouldn’t—” Gawyn began worriedly, but Galad motioned him to silence and stepped closer to Nynaeve.

Her face kept its stern expression, but she unconsciously smoothed the front of her dress as he smiled down at her. Elayne was sadly unsurprised.

“I apologize, Nynaeve, for our forcing ourselves on you unwanted,” he said smoothly. “We will go, of course. But remember that we are here if you need us.”

Nynaeve returned his smile. “One,” she said.

Galad blinked, his smile fading. Calmly, he turned to Elayne. Gawyn got up and started for the door. “Elayne,” Galad said, “you know that you, especially, can call on me at any time, for anything. I hope you know that.” Elayne folded her arms under her breasts and raised her chin at him.  _ He dares say that after all the times he snitched on me to Mother? _

“Two,” Nynaeve said.

Galad gave her an irritated look. “We will talk again,” he told Elayne, bowing. With a last smile, he took an unhurried step toward the door.

“Thrrrrrrrrr”—Gawyn darted through the door, and even Galad’s graceful stride quickened markedly—“ree,” Nynaeve finished as the door banged shut behind them.

Elayne clapped her hands delightedly. “Oh, well done,” she said. “Very well done. I did not even know men were forbidden the Accepted’s quarters, too.”

“They aren’t,” Nynaeve said dryly, “but those louts did not know it, either.” Elayne clapped her hands again and laughed. “I’d have let them just leave,” Nynaeve added, “if Galad had not made such a show of taking his time about it. That young man has too fair a face for his own good.” Even as she said that, Nynaeve straightened her dress self-consciously again.

Min was grinning about something. “Speaking of Galad. Mayam was making calf eyes at him today while he was working with the Warders,” she said. She sat back down, rocked the stool on two legs and waited.

Nynaeve refused to be baited. “She can look at whoever she wants. I can’t imagine why I would be interested.”

“No reason, I suppose. Though she’s risking being held back even longer.” Mayam Colona was known to be the most experienced of the Accepted. So experienced that Novices had come to the Tower and been raised Aes Sedai in the time she had spent wearing the banded dress. Elayne had learned how to tell the strength, and potential future strength of any woman who stood near her and had been somewhat surprised to find than Mayam was, if not as strong as her or Nynaeve, well above average. She didn’t know why the woman was being held back, but she had the, perhaps unworthy, suspicion that it would be best if Mat Cauthon was kept far away from her.

“I guess it’s understandable,” Min continued. “He is awfully handsome, if you don’t mind him being so rigid. Very nice to look at, especially with his shirt off. Wouldn’t you say, Nynaeve?”

Nynaeve scowled. “I have no desire to look at Galad, with or without his shirt.”

“I shouldn’t tease you,” Min said contritely. “I’m sorry for that. But you do like to look at him—don’t grimace at me like that—and so does nearly every woman in the White Tower who isn’t a Red. I’ve seen Aes Sedai down at the practice yards when he’s working forms, especially Greens. Checking on their Warders, they say, but I don’t see so many when Galad isn’t there. Even the cooks and maids come out to watch him. It’s like they can’t help themselves. I can’t either, sometimes,” Min added with a laugh, “and I can see what he is like.”

Elayne felt a little stab of jealousy. “Galad is so good he’d make you tear your hair out. He’d hurt a person because he had to serve a greater good. He wouldn’t even notice who was hurt, because he’d be so intent on the other, but if he did, he would expect them to understand and think it was all well and right.”

“I suppose you would know,” Min said.

Elayne sat down on the bed, tucking her feet up under her. “If you are mooning over Galad, Nynaeve, you will have no sympathy from me. I may even dose you with one of those horrible concoctions you’re always talking about.” She frowned at Nynaeve when the woman did not bristle as expected. “What is the matter with her?”

Min leaned toward her and lowered her voice. “That skinny Accepted Idrelle told her she was as clumsy as a cow and had half the Talents, and Nynaeve clouted her ear.” Elayne winced. “Exactly,” Min murmured. “They had her up to Sheriam’s study before you could blink, and she hasn’t been fit to live with since.”

Apparently Min had not dropped her voice enough, for there was a growl from Nynaeve. Suddenly the door whipped open once more, and a gale howled into the room. It did not ruffle the blankets on the bed, but Min and the stool toppled, to roll against the wall. Immediately the wind died, and Nynaeve stood with a stricken look on her face.

Elayne hurried to her friend and was relieved to find her unhurt, if a little pop-eyed. Nynaeve came to help Min to her feet.

“I’m sorry, Min,” Nynaeve said in a tight voice. “Sometimes my temper ... I can’t ask you to forgive me, not for this.” She took a deep breath. “If you want to report me to Sheriam, I will understand. I deserve it.”

Instinctually, Elayne had opened herself to  _ saidar _ when Min fell. The One Power filled her with life. She smelled the faint rose aroma of the soap she had used in her morning bath. She could feel the smooth stones of the floor, as well as she could the bed when she sat down again. She could hear Min and Nynaeve breathe, much less their quiet words. She did not release it.

Three tiny glowing spheres of red, white and green appeared above her hands. She began to juggle them in an increasingly intricate pattern. As always now there was that feeling of relief when she filled herself with  _ saidar _ , as though a hunger was being sated. Strictly speaking she shouldn’t be channelling outside the supervision of an Aes Sedai or an Accepted, but surely Nynaeve’s presence qualified.

“If it comes to forgiving,” Min was saying, “maybe you should forgive me. You have a temper, and I have a big mouth. I will forgive you if you forgive me.” With murmurs of “forgiven” that sounded meant on both sides, the two women hugged. “But if you do it again,” Min said with a laugh, “I might clout your ear.”

“Next time,” Nynaeve replied, “I will throw something at you like a sensible woman.” She was laughing, too, but her laughter ceased abruptly as her eye fell on Elayne. “You stop that, or there will be someone else going to the Mistress of Novices.”

She hastily severed all contact with  _ saidar _ , but kept her face as composed as she could. “I have to practice, Nynaeve,” she said. “They ask more and more of me. If I did not practice on my own, I would never keep up.”

“And what happens when you draw too much,” Nynaeve asked, “and there’s no-one there to stop you? I wish you were more afraid. I am. Don’t you think I know what it is like for you? It’s always there, and you want to fill yourself with it. Sometimes it is all I can do to make myself stop; I want all of it. I know it would burn me to a crisp, and I want it anyway.” She shivered. “I just wish you were more afraid.”

“The only thing that terrifies me,” Elayne said airily, “is washing dishes. It seems as if I have to wash dishes every day.” Min snatched up a pillow and threw it at her. Elayne pulled it off her head and threw it back, but then her shoulders slumped. “Oh, very well. I am so scared I don’t know why my teeth are not chattering. Elaida told me I’d be so frightened that I would want to run away with the Travelling People, but I did not understand. A man who drove oxen as hard as they drive us would be shunned. I am tired all the time. I wake up tired and go to bed exhausted, and sometimes I’m so afraid that I will slip and channel more of the Power than I can handle that I ...” Peering into her lap, she let the words trail off. She would not speak, to anyone, not even Min, of the times she had cried herself to sleep, alone in the Novice Quarters. Or of the dreams of the Royal Palace in Caemlyn that so tempted her.  _ I could take Min back with me. We could live in the Palace together. Surely Mother would not mind _ .

“The Travelling People are tempting,” Nynaeve agreed, “but wherever you go, it will not change what you can do. You cannot run from  _ saidar _ .” She did not sound as if she liked what she was saying.

Elayne misliked the topic and so sought to change it. “What do you see, Min?” she said. “Are we going to be powerful Aes Sedai, or will we spend the rest of our lives washing dishes as Novices, or ...” Burning out was another option. But the Sisters considered it crass to speak of it.

Min did not share the Aes Sedai’s sensibilities but she shifted on her stool nonetheless. “I don’t like reading friends,” she muttered. “Friendship gets in the way of the reading. It makes me try to put the best face on what I see. That’s why I don’t do it for you two anymore. Anyway, nothing has changed about you that I can ...” She squinted at them, and suddenly frowned. “That’s new,” she breathed.

“What?” Nynaeve asked sharply.

Min hesitated before answering. “There’s a spider crawling on your shoulder,” Nynaeve was peering down in alarm before Min could finish, “but the kind only I can see. I see you holding an arrow in your hands and snapping it in two. And I see thunderclouds. Danger. You are in some kind of danger. Or you will be, very soon. I can’t make it out, but it is danger.”

“Did you see anything new about me?” Elayne asked, though she was not entirely certain she wanted to know the answer.

Min’s big, nearly black eyes were positively heart-breaking when she looked at you like that. Elayne regretted asking, but before she could withdraw the question Min spoke. “I see a severed hand, not yours. And I see a rope of silver moons tightening around your neck. I don’t know what either viewing means.” Her mouth turned down. “But I don’t like how they feel.”

“You see,” Nynaeve said. “You must take care. We all must. You must promise not to channel again without someone to guide you.”

When the door swung open once more, a dark-eyed Aes Sedai with her yellow hair done in a multitude of braids stepped into the room. Nynaeve blinked in surprise, but seemed to recognise her. Elayne was surprised, too. Novices and Accepted were sent for if an Aes Sedai wanted them; it could mean no good, a sister coming herself.

The room was crowded with four women in it. The unfamiliar Sister paused to adjust her red-fringed shawl, eyeing them. Min did not move, but Elayne rose and curtsied alongside the Accepted, though Nynaeve barely flexed her knee.

The Aes Sedai’s eyes settled on Nynaeve. “And why are these others here, child? I had thought to find you at study.” Her tone was ice and her accent, like her hairstyle, spoke of Tarabon.

“I am visiting with friends,” Nynaeve said in a tight voice. After a moment she added a belated, “Liandrin Sedai.”

“The Accepted, they can have no friends among the Novices. This you should have learned by this time, child. You and you”—her finger stabbed at Elayne and Min—“will go.”

“I will return later.” Min rose casually, making a great show of being in no hurry to obey, and strolled by Liandrin with a grin, of which Liandrin took no notice at all. Elayne gave Nynaeve a worried look before she dropped a curtsy and left.

Elayne closed the door behind her and set off down the hallway, but she had gone only a few steps before she realised Min wasn’t with her. When she glanced back she found her friend leaning casually against the wall by her door, head cocked towards the room they had just left.  _ She shouldn’t be eavesdropping on an Aes Sedai _ , Elayne thought. She was torn between annoyance at Min’s impropriety, worry for her ... and a gnawing curiosity. She went back and, blushing, leaned across Min to stretch her ear towards the door.

“You are from the same village as the boys who travelled with Moiraine. Is it not so?” Liandrin was saying.

“Have you word of the missing party?” Nynaeve said, just short of a demand. The Accepted had no rule about not speaking to an Aes Sedai until spoken to.

“You have concern for them. That is good. They are in danger, and you might be able to help them.”

“How do you know they’re in trouble?” There was no doubt about the demand in Nynaeve’s voice this time.

Liandrin’s tone did not change. “Though you are not aware of it, Moiraine has sent letters to the White Tower concerning you. Moiraine Sedai, she worries about you, and about your young ... friends. These boys, they are in danger. Do you wish to help them, or leave them to their fate?”

“What kind of trouble? Why do you care about helping them?” Nynaeve said, there was a pause and then, “And I thought you didn’t like Moiraine.”

“Do not presume too much, child,” Liandrin said sharply. “To be Accepted is not to be a sister. Accepted and Novices alike listen when a sister speaks, and do as they are told.” She drew a breath and went on; her tone was coldly serene again. “Someday, I am sure, you will serve a cause, and you will learn then that to serve it you must work even with those whom you dislike. I tell you I have worked with many with whom I would not share a room if it were left to me alone. Would you not work alongside the one you hated worst, if it would save your friends?”

“Yes,” Nynaeve said, though she sounded reluctant. “But you still haven’t told me what kind of danger they’re in. Liandrin Sedai.”

“The danger comes from Shayol Ghul. They are hunted, as I understand they once before were. If you will come with me, some dangers, at least, may be eliminated. Do not ask how, for I cannot tell you, but I tell you flatly it is so.”

Elayne exchanged silent, shocked looks with Min. Rand and his friends were being hunted by the Shadow? She couldn’t imagine why, though the very fact of it set her heart to racing. Anything the Shadow wanted was to be opposed, that went without saying.  _ What do they want with Rand, though? He told me he was only a shepherd, and no-one else who knows him has disputed the claim _ . Perhaps if she discovered that she could also figure out why she kept catching herself thinking about him almost half a year after they met so briefly.

“Come where?” Nynaeve said suspiciously.

“Toman Head.”

Elayne, listening in, felt her mouth fall open, and Nynaeve muttered, “There’s a war on Toman Head. Does this danger have something to do with Artur Hawkwing’s armies?”

“You believe rumours, child? But even if they were true, is that enough to stop you? I thought you called these men friends.” There was a disgusted tone to the Red sister’s words that said she would never call any man friend.

“Why me? What can I do that Moiraine—or you, Liandrin—cannot?”

Elayne winced. Nynaeve had forgotten the honorific in addressing her and Liandrin did not seem the sort to ignore such, but what she said was, “You come from their village. In some way I do not entirely understand, you are connected to them. Beyond that, I cannot say. And no more of your foolish questions will I answer. Will you come with me for their sake?” She paused for her assent.

“If they are in danger, then I have no choice,” said Nynaeve.

“Good,” Liandrin said, sounding relieved. “You will meet me at the northernmost edge of the Ogier grove one hour before sunset with your horse and whatever you will need for the journey. Tell no-one of this.”

“I’m not supposed to leave the Tower grounds without permission,” Nynaeve said slowly.

“You have my permission. Tell no-one. No-one at all. The Black Ajah walks the halls of the White Tower.”

Nynaeve gasped, and Elayne clamped a hand across her own mouth. Darkfriend Aes Sedai? Elaida had always said that was a blasphemous lie spread by enemies of the Tower. Nynaeve had heard the same from others. “I thought all Aes Sedai denied the existence of—of that,” she said.

Liandrin’s mouth tightened into a sneer. “Many do, but Tarmon Gai’don approaches, and the time leaves when denials can be made. The Black Ajah, it is the opposite of everything for which the Tower stands, but it exists, child. It is everywhere, any woman could belong to it, and it serves the Dark One. If your friends are pursued by the Shadow, do you think the Black Ajah will leave you alive and free to help them? Tell no-one—no-one!—or you may not live to reach Toman Head.”

“What about Mat?” Nynaeve interrupted, and they actually heard Liandrin growl. “If the Black Ajah is here then he’s in danger, too.”

“Other arrangements, they are being made for him, yes? The Amyrlin Seat herself, she is here and protecting him, yes?” Liandrin sounded disgusted. “Ask me no more foolish questions. One hour before sunset. At the grove. Do not fail me.”

Elayne and Min exchanged a brief, wide-eyed look before darting towards the adjacent, unoccupied room. She discovered then that it was exceedingly awkward to run and tiptoe at the same time, but the thought of what might happen if Liandrin caught them spurred her on. Min eased the door closed as soon as Elayne had slipped in.

She heard the door to Nynaeve’s room bang shut and purposeful footsteps hurry past her hiding place. Heart thundering, she waited for the steps to pass beyond hearing.

Min held her hand. She looked quite wary, and understandably so considering all they had heard. Together they slipped out into the, thankfully empty, hall and returned to Nynaeve’s room.

“She cannot know,” Nynaeve was muttering when they bustled in.

Min slammed the door behind them. “Are you really going?” she asked.

“We listened at the door,” Elayne said contritely. “We heard everything.”

Nynaeve’s lips thinned and she shook her head grimly. “You have to keep this to yourselves,” she cautioned. “I suppose Liandrin has arranged permission from Sheriam for me to go, but even if she hasn’t, even if they start searching the Tower from top to bottom for me tomorrow, you mustn’t say a word.”

“Keep it to myself?” Min said. “No fear on that. I’m going with you. All I do all day is try to explain to one Brown sister or another something I don’t understand myself. I can’t even go for a walk without the Amyrlin herself popping out and asking me to read whoever we see. When that woman asks you to do something, there doesn’t seem to be any way out of it. I must have read half the White Tower for her, but she always wants another demonstration. I’m not going to stay locked up here any longer than I have to.” Her face wore a look of determination that allowed no argument.

Elayne quashed her first reaction. It was unfair to Min to let herself be hurt by that. She shouldn’t have to accept an unjust captivity just because she got to spend it with Elayne. And she doubted Min would have an easier time extricating herself from the Amyrlin’s hospitality than Cauthon currently was.

Besides, it was not as if they were going to be parted. Elayne would not miss an opportunity like this for the world. To help defeat the Shadow, to rescue her friend from their clutches. She imagined the look on his face when she saved him, how impressed he would be, how grateful, and found herself blushing. “I am going, too,” she announced.

Min smiled nervously at her words, but she did not look surprised.

“Elayne,” Nynaeve said gently, “You are the Daughter-Heir of Andor. If you disappear from the White Tower, why, it—it could start a war.”

“Mother wouldn’t start a war with Tar Valon if they dried and salted me, which they may be trying to do. If you two can go off and have an adventure, you needn’t think I am going to stay here and wash dishes, and scrub floors, and have some Accepted berating me because I didn’t make the fire the exact shade of blue she wanted. Gawyn will die from envy when he finds out.” A bright laugh burst from her lips and she could not seem to keep her feet still. She paced the room, just as Nynaeve had done earlier. “I feel”—she hesitated, searching for the word—“free. I’ve never had an adventure. I’ll bet we won’t cry ourselves to sleep on an adventure. And if we do, we will make sure the gleemen leave that part out.”

“This is foolishness,” Nynaeve said. “We are going to Toman Head. You’ve heard the news, and the rumours. It will be dangerous. You must stay here.”

“I heard what Liandrin Sedai said about the—the Black Ajah, too.” Elayne’s voice dropped almost to a whisper at that name. “How safe will I be here, if they are here? If Mother even suspected the Black Ajah really existed, she would pitch me into the middle of a battle to get me away from them.”

Nynaeve frowned. “If it’s true. She’s forestalled us asking anyone for advice, because after that, who can we trust? The Light help us.”

“You don’t believe her?” Elayne said incredulously. “She’s an Aes Sedai.”

“She is,” Nynaeve said dryly. “I’ll wager my best silver pin against a blueberry that every word she said was true. But I wonder if we heard what we thought we did.”

“I heard that the Dark One’s forces were marshalling and that we were needed to help turn them back. That’s quite enough for me,” she said firmly.

“But, Elayne—”

“There is only one way for you to stop me coming. That is to tell the Mistress of Novices. We will make a pretty picture, the two of us lined up in her study. All three of us. I don’t think Min would escape from something like this. So since you are not going to tell Sheriam Sedai, I am coming, too.”

Nynaeve threw up her hands. “Perhaps you can say something to convince her,” she told Min.

Min had been leaning against the door, squinting at Elayne, and now she shook her head. “I think she has to come as much as the rest of us. I can see the danger around all of you more clearly, now. Not clearly enough to make it out, but I think it has something to do with you deciding to go. That’s why it is clearer; because it is more certain.”

“That’s no reason for her to come,” Nynaeve said, but Min shook her head again.

“She is linked to—to those boys as much as you, or me. She’s part of it, Nynaeve whatever it is. Part of the Pattern, I suppose an Aes Sedai would say.”

Elayne was taken aback, and excited, too. “I am? What part, Min?”

“I can’t see it clearly.” Min looked at the floor shyly. “Sometimes I wish I couldn’t read people at all. Most people aren’t satisfied with what I see anyway.”

“If we are all going,” Nynaeve said, “then we had best be about making plans.” However much she might argue beforehand, once a course of action had been decided, Nynaeve always went right to the practicalities: what they had to take with them, and how cold it would be by the time they reached Toman Head, and how they could get their horses from the stables without being stopped.

“There’s someone else we should bring with us,” Min said in the midst of it all. “Mat Cauthon. He’s tied up in all this as well.”

Nynaeve frowned. “Liandrin said she he was to remain here with the Amyrlin. Though I have to admit, I’m hard-pressed to decide which is safer for him. Toman Head or the White Tower.”

“I suspect he’d take his chances with Toman Head, given what you’ve told me of his antics,” Min said.

“He might. But Mat can’t be trusted to make such decisions,” said Nynaeve with a sniff of long sufferance.

“If the Amyrlin has made arrangements for him here it would probably be best to leave him with her,” Elayne said. And besides, she didn’t want Mat Cauthon spoiling her adventure with his roguish ways. He’d probably spend the whole journey leering at her, or Min for that matter.

Nynaeve nodded. “It would be best not to involve him. Better for him, and better for us.”

Min shrugged acceptance, and the path was chosen.


	24. Damane

CHAPTER 52:  _ Damane _

“Your first lesson is this,” the woman said emphatically. There was no animosity in her voice, but what almost sounded like friendliness. “You are a  _ damane _ , a Leashed One, and I am a  _ sul’dam _ , a Holder of the Leash. When  _ damane _ and  _ sul’dam _ are joined, whatever hurt the  _ sul’dam _ feels, the  _ damane _ feels twice over. Even to death. So you must remember that you may never strike at a  _ sul’dam _ in any way, and you must protect your  _ sul’dam _ even more than yourself. I am Renna Emain. How are you called?”

Elayne stared at her. She was a perfectly normal looking woman, with long, dark hair and big brown eyes, pretty even, and perhaps as much as ten years older than Nynaeve. But the words she spoke were madness.

“I am not ... what you said,” Elayne objected. She pulled at the collar again; it gave no more than before. She thought of knocking the woman down and trying to pry the bracelet from her wrist, but rejected it. Even if the soldiers did not try to stop her—and so far they seemed to be ignoring her and Renna altogether—she had the sinking feeling the woman was telling the truth. “Liandrin Sedai? Why are you letting them do this?” Liandrin dusted her hands together, never looking in her direction.

“The very first thing you must learn,” Renna said, “is to do exactly as you are told, and without delay.”

Elayne gasped. Suddenly her skin burned and prickled from the soles of her feet to her scalp. She tossed her head as the burning sensation increased.

“Many  _ sul’dam _ ,” Renna went on in that almost friendly tone, “do not believe  _ damane _ should be allowed names, or at least only names they are given. But I am the one who took you, so I will be in charge of your training, and I will allow you to keep your own name. If you do not displease me too far. I am mildly upset with you now. Do you really wish to keep on until I am angry?”

Quivering, Elayne gritted her teeth. Her nails dug into her palms with the effort of not scratching wildly. “Elayne,” she managed to get out. “I am Elayne Trakand.” Instantly the burning itch was gone. She let out a long, unsteady breath.

“Elayne,” Renna said. “That is a good name.” And to Elayne’s horror, Renna patted her on the head as she would a dog.

That, she realized, was what she had detected in the woman’s voice—a certain good will for a dog in training, not quite the friendliness one might have toward another human being.

Renna chuckled. “Now you are even angrier. If you intend to strike at me, remember to make it a small blow, for you will feel it twice as hard as I. Do not attempt to channel; that you will never do without my express command.”

She tried to ignore Renna, as much as it was possible to ignore someone who held a leash fastened to a collar around your neck. Her cheeks burned when the other woman chuckled again. She wanted to go to Min, but the amount of leash Renna had let out would not reach that far. She called softly, “Min, are you all right?”

Sitting slowly back on her heels, Min nodded, then put a hand to her head as if she wished she had not moved it.

Jagged lightning crackled across the clear sky, then struck among the trees some distance off. Elayne jumped, and suddenly smiled. Nynaeve was still free. Her smile faded into a glare for Liandrin. For whatever the reason the Aes Sedai had betrayed them, there would be a reckoning. Someday. Somehow. The glare did no good; Liandrin did not look away from the palanquin.

The bare-chested men knelt, lowering the palanquin to the ground, and Suroth stepped down, carefully arranging her robe, then picked her way to Liandrin on soft-slippered feet. The two women were much of a size. Brown eyes stared levelly into black.

“You were to bring me one,” Suroth said. “Instead, you brought two, and the one I was expecting runs loose, more powerful by far than I had been led to believe. She will attract every patrol of ours within ten miles.”

“I brought her to you,” Liandrin said calmly. “If you cannot manage to hold her, perhaps our master should find another among you to serve him. You take fright at trifles. If patrols come, kill them.”

Lightning flashed again in the near distance, and moments later something roared like thunder not far from where it struck; a cloud of dust rose into the air. Neither Liandrin nor Suroth took any notice.

“I could still return to Falme with two new  _ damane _ ,” Suroth said. “It grieves me to allow an ... Aes Sedai”—she twisted the words like a curse—“to walk free.”

Liandrin’s face did not change, but Elayne saw a nimbus abruptly glow around her. “Beware, High Lady,” Renna called. “She stands ready!”

There was a stir among the soldiers, a reaching for swords and lances, but Suroth only steepled her hands, smiling at Liandrin over her long nails. “You will make no move against me, Liandrin. Our master would disapprove, as I am surely needed here more than you, and you fear him more than you fear being made  _ damane _ .”

Liandrin smiled, though white spots marked her cheeks with anger. “And you, Suroth, fear him more than you fear me burning you to a cinder where you stand.”

“Just so. We both fear him. Yet even our master’s needs will change with time. All  _ marath’damane _ will be leashed eventually. Perhaps I will be the one who places the collar around your lovely throat.”

“As you say, Suroth. Our master’s needs will change. I will remind you of it on the day when you kneel to me.”

A tall leatherleaf perhaps a mile away suddenly became a roaring torch.

“This grows tiresome,” Suroth said. “Elbar, recall them.” The hook-nosed man produced a horn no bigger than his fist; it made a hoarse, piercing cry.

“You must find the woman Nynaeve,” Liandrin said sharply. “Elayne is of no importance, but Nynaeve is to be broken utterly and paraded before her countrymen in her debased state. Our master, he commands it, yes?”

_ Paraded before Rand and his friends, she means. Why? Why would they want him to see such a thing? What is so important about him? _

“I know very well what has been commanded,  _ marath’damane _ , though I would give much to know why.”

“However much you were told, child,” Liandrin sneered, “that is how much you are allowed to know. Remember that you serve and obey.”

Suroth sniffed. “I will not remain here to find this Nynaeve. My usefulness to our master will be at an end if Turak hands me over to the Seekers for Truth.” Liandrin opened her mouth angrily, but Suroth refused to allow her a word. “The woman will not remain free for long. When the  _ Corenne _ arrives we will have every woman on this miserable spit of land who can channel even slightly, leashed and collared and ready to serve the Empress, may she live forever. If you wish to remain and search for her, do so. Patrols will be here soon, thinking to engage the rabble that still hides in the countryside. Some patrols take  _ damane _ and  _ sul’dam _ with them, and they will not care what master you serve. Should you survive the encounter, the leash and collar will teach you a new life, and I do not believe our master will trouble to deliver one foolish enough to let herself be taken.”

“If Nynaeve is allowed to escape,” Liandrin said tightly, “our master will trouble himself with you, Suroth. Take her soon, or pay the price.” She strode to the Waygate, clutching the reins of her mare. Soon it was closing behind her.

The soldiers who had gone after Nynaeve came galloping back with the two women linked by leash, collar, and bracelet, the  _ damane _ and the  _ sul’dam _ riding side by side. Three men led horses with bodies across the saddles. Elayne felt a surge of hope when she realized the bodies all wore armour. They had not caught Nynaeve.

Min started to rise to her feet, but the hook-nosed man planted a boot between her shoulder blades and drove her to the ground. Gasping for breath, she twitched there weakly. “I beg permission to speak, High Lady,” he said. Suroth made a small motion with her hand, and he went on. “This peasant cut me, High Lady. If the High Lady has no use for her ...?” Suroth motioned slightly again, already turning away, and he reached over his shoulder for the hilt of his sword.

“No!” Elayne screamed. She heard Renna curse softly, and suddenly the burning itch covered her skin again, worse than before, but she did not care about that, not compared to what was about to happen. “Please! High Lady, please! She is innocent. And she is my friend!” Pain such as she had never known wracked her through the burning. Every muscle knotted and cramped; forcing her to her knees. She saw Elbar’s heavy, curved blade come free of its sheath, see him raise it with both hands. “Please! Oh, Min! I love you.”

Abruptly, the pain was gone as if it had never been; only the memory remained. Suroth’s blue velvet slippers, dirt-stained now, appeared in front of her face, but it was at Elbar that she stared. He stood there with his sword over his head and all his weight on the foot that rested on Min’s back ... and he did not move.

“This peasant is your friend?” Suroth said.

Elayne started to rise, but at a surprised arching of Suroth’s eyebrow, she remained kneeling where she was and only raised her head. She had to save Min. Even if it meant grovelling. “Yes, High Lady,” she said humbly.

“And if I spare her, if I allow her to visit you occasionally, you will work hard and learn as you are taught?”

“I will, High Lady.” She would have promised much more to keep that sword from splitting Min’s skull.

“Put the girl on her horse, Elbar,” Suroth said, to Elayne’s vast relief. “Tie her on, if she cannot sit her saddle. If this  _ damane _ proves a disappointment, perhaps then I will let you have the head of the girl.” She was already moving toward her palanquin.

Renna pulled Elayne roughly to her feet and pushed her toward Lioness, but Elayne had eyes only for Min. Elbar was no gentler with Min than Renna with her, but she thought Min was alright. At least Min shrugged off Elbar’s attempt to tie her across her saddle and climbed onto her sorrel mare with only a little help.

The odd party started off with Suroth leading and Elbar slightly to the rear of her palanquin, but close enough to heed any summons immediately. Renna and Elayne rode at the back with Min, and the other  _ sul’dam _ and  _ damane _ , behind the soldiers. The yellow-haired woman who had apparently meant to collar Nynaeve fondled the coiled silver leash she still carried and looked angry. Sparse forest covered the rolling land, and the smoke of the burning leatherleaf was soon only a smudge in the sky behind them. They descended from the hills where the Ogier had once lived and rode westward, towards Falme.

“You were honoured,” Renna said after a time, “having the High Lady speak to you. Another time, I would let you wear a ribbon to mark the honour. But since you brought her attention on yourself ...” Elayne cried out as a switch seemed to lash across her back, then another across her leg, her arm. From every direction they seemed to come; she knew there was nothing to block, but she could not help throwing her arms about as if to stop the blows. She bit her lip to stifle her moans, but tears still rolled down her cheeks. Lioness tossed her head angrily and danced, but Renna’s grip on the silver leash kept her from carrying Elayne away. None of the soldiers even looked back.

“What are you doing to her?” Min shouted. “Elayne? Stop it!”

“You live on sufferance ... Min, is it?” Renna said mildly. “Let this be a lesson for you as well. So long as you try to interfere, it will not stop.”

Min raised a fist, then let it fall. Her shoulders slumped and she looked at Elayne sadly. “I won’t interfere. Only, please, stop it. Elayne, I’m sorry.”

The unseen blows went on for a few moments more, as if to show Min her intervention had done nothing, then ceased, but Elayne could not stop shuddering. The pain did not go away this time. She pushed back the sleeve of her dress, thinking to see weals; her skin was unmarked, but the feel of them was still there. She swallowed. “It was not your fault, Min.” Lioness tossed her head, eyes rolling and Elayne patted the mare’s snowy neck. “It wasn’t yours, either.”

“It was your fault, Elayne,” Renna said. She sounded so patient, dealing so kindly with someone who was too dense to see the right, that Elayne wanted to scream. “When a  _ damane _ is punished, it is always her fault, even if she does not know why. A  _ damane _ must anticipate what her  _ sul’dam _ wants. But this time, you do know why.  _ Damane _ are like furniture, or tools, always there ready to be used, but never pushing themselves forward for attention. Especially not for the attention of one of the Blood.”

Elayne bit her lip until she tasted blood.  _ This is a nightmare. It can’t be real. Why did Liandrin do this? Why is this happening?  _ “May I ask a question?”

“Of me, you may.” Renna smiled. “Many  _ sul’dam _ will wear your bracelet over the years—there are always many more  _ sul’dam _ than  _ damane _ —and some would have your hide in strips if you took your eyes off the floor or opened your mouth without permission, but I see no reason not to let you speak, so long as you are careful in what you say.” One of the other  _ sul’dam _ snorted loudly; she was linked to a pretty, dark-haired woman in her middle years who kept her eyes on her hands.

“Liandrin”—Elayne would not give her the honorific, not ever again, not even if the dark suspicion that had blossomed in her mind proved untrue—“and the High Lady spoke of a master they both serve. Who is he? What does he want with Nynaeve and her folk?”

“The affairs of the Blood,” Renna said, “are not for me to take notice of, and certainly not for you. The High Lady will tell me what she wishes me to know, and I will tell you what I wish you to know. Anything else that you hear or see must be to you as if it never was said, as if it never happened. This way lies safety, most especially for a  _ damane _ .  _ Damane _ are too valuable to be killed out of hand, but you might find yourself not only soundly punished, but absent a tongue to speak or hands to write.  _ Damane _ can do what they must without these things.”

Elayne shivered, but only partially in fear. In Andor even the most vile criminal would not be punished so cruelly. And any noble who thought to rule so tyrannically would soon find the Queen’s Guards battering down their gates. “This is a monstrous thing. An injustice and a cruelty such as only the Shadow could embrace. Or so I would have thought. How can you do this to anyone? What diseased mind ever thought of it?”

The blue-eyed  _ sul’dam _ with the empty leash growled, “This one could do without her tongue already, Renna.”

Renna only smiled patiently. “How is it horrible? Could we allow anyone to run loose who can do what a  _ damane _ can? Sometimes men are born who would be  _ marath’damane _ if they were women —it is so here also, I have heard—and they must be killed, of course, but the women do not go mad. Better for them to become  _ damane _ than make trouble contending for power. As for the mind that first thought of the  _ a’dam _ , it was the mind of a woman who called herself Aes Sedai.”

Elayne knew incredulity must be painting her face, because Renna laughed openly. “When Luthair Paendrag Mondwin, son of the Hawkwing, first faced the Armies of the Night, he found many among them who called themselves Aes Sedai. They contended for power among themselves and used the One Power on the field of battle. One such, a woman named Deain, who thought she could do better serving the Emperor—he was not Emperor then, of course—since he had no Aes Sedai in his armies, came to him with a device she had made, the first  _ a’dam _ , fastened to the neck of one of her sisters. Though that woman did not want to serve Luthair, the  _ a’dam _ required her to serve. Deain made more  _ a’dam _ , the first  _ sul’dam _ were found, and women captured who called themselves Aes Sedai discovered that they were in fact only  _ marath’damane _ , Those Who Must Be Leashed. It is said that when she herself was leashed, Deain’s screams shook the Towers of Midnight, but of course she, too, was a  _ marath’damane _ , and  _ marath’damane _ cannot be allowed to run free. Perhaps you will be one of those who has the ability to make  _ a’dam _ . If so, you will be pampered, you may rest assured.”

Elayne looked yearningly at the countryside through which they rode. But she knew she could not outrun her captors, even if she was able to remove the leash from her neck.  _ Perhaps this truly is Hawkwing’s legacy. The legacy of his war with the Aes Sedai, come back to haunt us a thousand years later _ .

“All this because man cannot suffer to be ruled by woman?” she sighed, not expecting a response.

“Not men.” Renna chuckled. “All  _ sul’dam _ are women. If a man put on this bracelet, most of the time it would be no different than if it were hanging on a peg on the wall.”

“And sometimes,” the blue-eyed  _ sul’dam _ put in harshly, “you and he would both die screaming.” The woman had sharp features and a tight, thin-lipped mouth, and Elayne suspected that anger was her permanent expression. “From time to time the Empress plays with lords by linking them to a  _ damane _ . It makes the lords sweat and entertains the Court of the Nine Moons. The lord never knows until it is done whether he will live or die, and neither does the  _ damane _ .” Her laugh was vicious.

Min eyed the Seanchan askance, but she was unable to hide the fear and disgust on her face. Not that they paid her the slightest heed.

Elayne’s back was straight as a rod. She fixed her gaze on the horizon and tried to ignore the creatures who rode with her. “Any noblewoman of Andor who thought to amuse themselves with such cruelties, even the queen, would soon find herself torn from her seat and hanged by her own people. And rightly so,” she pronounced.

Renna shook her finger at Elayne. “You speak as though you were of the High Blood. But you are only  _ damane _ now, however you were born. Even members of the Imperial Family have lost their names and become  _ damane _ . The quicker you accept this, the less I will have to punish you.” The  _ sul’dam _ pursued her lips. “Though not in the way Alwhin describes. Only the Empress can afford to waste  _ damane _ in such a way, and I do not mean to train you only to have you thrown away.”

“I have not seen any training at all so far, Renna,” said Alwhin. “Only a great deal of chatter, as if you and this  _ damane _ were girlhood friends.”

“Perhaps it is time to see what she can do,” Renna said, studying Elayne. “Do you have enough control yet to channel at that distance?” She pointed to a tall oak standing alone on a hilltop.

Elayne frowned at the tree, perhaps half a mile from the line followed by the soldiers and Suroth’s palanquin. She had never tried anything much beyond arm’s reach, but she thought it might be possible. “I don’t know,” she said.

“Try,” Renna told her. “Feel the tree. Feel the sap in the tree. I want you to make it all not only hot, but so hot that every drop of sap in every branch flashes to steam in an instant. Do it.”

Elayne had not channelled at all during their journey through the Ways, and the desire to do so gnawed at the back of her mind. But it was far outweighed by her repulsion at the thought of obeying these creatures. “It is too far,” she said “And I’ve never done anything like that before.”

One of the  _ sul’dam _ laughed raucously, and Alwhin said, “She never even tried.”

Renna shook her head almost sadly. “When one has been a  _ sul’dam _ long enough,” she told Egwene, “one learns to tell many things about  _ damane _ even without the bracelet, but with the bracelet one can always tell whether a  _ damane _ has tried to channel. You must never lie to me, or to any  _ sul’dam _ , not even by a hair.”

Suddenly the invisible switches were back, striking at her everywhere. Yelling, she forgot herself and tried to hit Renna, but the  _ sul’dam _ casually knocked her fist away, and Elayne felt as if Renna had hit her arm with a stick. In desperation she dug her heels into Lioness’ flanks, but the  _ sul’dam _ ’s grip on the leash nearly pulled her out of her saddle. Frantically she reached for  _ saidar _ . The  _ sul’dam _ shook her head wryly; Elayne howled as her skin was suddenly scalded. Not until she fled from  _ saidar _ completely did the burn begin to fade, and the unseen blows never ceased or slowed. She tried to shout that she would try, if only Renna would stop, but all she could manage was to scream and writhe.

Dimly, she was aware of Min shouting angrily and trying to ride to her side, of Alwhin tearing Min’s reins from her hands, of another  _ sul’dam _ speaking sharply to her  _ damane _ , who looked at Min. And then Min was yelling, too, arms flapping as if trying to ward off blows or beat away stinging insects. In her own pain, Min’s seemed distant.

Their cries together were enough to make some of the soldiers twist in their saddles. After one look, they laughed and turned back. How  _ sul’dam _ dealt with  _ damane _ was no affair of theirs.

To Elayne it seemed to go on forever, but at last there was an end. She lay sprawled weakly across the cantle of her saddle, cheeks wet with tears, sobbing into Lioness’ mane. The mare whickered uneasily.

“It is good that you have spirit,” Renna said calmly. “The best  _ damane _ are those who have spirit to be shaped and moulded.”

Elayne squeezed her eyes shut. She wished she could close her ears, too, to shut out Renna’s voice.  _ I have to escape. But how? Nynaeve, help me. Light, somebody help me _ .

“You will be one of the best,” Renna said in tones of satisfaction. Her hand stroked Elayne’s hair, much as a mistress with pet her dog’s coat to soothe it.


	25. Paths

CHAPTER 53: Paths

Nynaeve leaned out of her saddle to peer around the screen of prickly leafed shrubs. Scattered trees met her eyes, some with leaves turning colour. The expanses of grass and brush between seemed empty. Nothing moved that she could see except the thinning column of smoke, wavering in a breeze, from the leatherleaf.

That had been her work, the leatherleaf, and once the lightning called from a clear sky, and a few other things she had not thought to try until those two women tried them on her. She thought they must work together in some way, though she could not understand their relation to each other, apparently leashed as they were. One wore a collar, but the other was chained as surely as she. What Nynaeve was sure of was that one or both were Aes Sedai. She had never had a clear enough sight of them to see the glow of channelling, but it had to be.

_ I’ll certainly take pleasure in telling Sheriam about them _ , she thought dryly.  _ Aes Sedai don’t use the Power as a weapon, do they? _

She certainly had. She had at least knocked the two women down with that lightning strike, and she had seen one of the soldiers, or his body rather, burn from the ball of fire she made and hurled at them. She did not like to think that she had killed anyone, even people who were attacking her, but if that was the price of freedom she would do what she must. Thankfully, she had not seen any of the strangers at all in some time now.

Sweat beaded on her forehead, and it was not all from exertion. Her contact with  _ saidar _ was gone, and she could not bring it back. In that first fury of knowing that Liandrin had betrayed them,  _ saidar _ had been there almost before she knew it, the One Power flooding her. It had seemed she could do anything. And as long as they had chased her, rage at being hunted like an animal had fuelled her. Now the chase had vanished. The longer she had gone without seeing an enemy at whom she could strike, the more she had begun to worry that they might be sneaking up on her somehow, and the more she had had time to worry about what was happening to Elayne and Min. Now she was forced to admit that what she felt most was fear. Fear for them, fear for herself. It was anger she needed.

Something stirred behind a tree.

Her breath caught, and she fumbled for  _ saidar _ , but all the exercises Sheriam and the others had taught her, all the blossoms unfolding in her mind, all the imagined streams that she held like riverbanks, did no good. She could feel it, sense the Source, but she could not touch it.

The man who stepped from behind the tree did not look surprised to see her. She glared at him, stoking her anger, still trying and failing to grasp  _ saidar _ . He did not dress like one of the strangers Liandrin was in league with. His furs and leathers looked finely made, but they were scuffed from hard use. He was tall, pale and gaunt with a bitter look about him, and she could not quite place his age. His bow was shorter than those used in the Theren but he carried it with familiarity, and she had the feeling the noise he had made had been deliberate.

“I mean you no harm,” he said in the kind of voice gleemen tried to emulate when recounting the words of a villain, but Nynaeve was not fool enough to judge him on that. At the very least, he did not share an accent with Suroth and her ilk.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you want?”

He gave a small shrug. “Nothing really. I heard the sounds of fighting and saw you being chased by the Seanchan. Are you an Aes Sedai?”

Nynaeve hesitated, wondering whether it would do her good or ill to flash the Great Serpent ring and claim allegiance to the White Tower. She decided to risk it. “I am here on Aes Sedai business,” she said slowly, watching him carefully. Aes Sedai treachery was Aes Sedai business. Her business would be in seeing Liandrin paid dearly for it, and in not blundering into two ambushes in one day.

The man nodded, studying the ring she displayed. “I know some people who would like to meet you then. Falmerans, enemies of your enemies. Friends.”

She frowned. Whatever else, she needed to find Elayne and Min and free them from their captors. Assuming they were still alive. She smothered her worry and weighed her options, vaguely aware that if it had it been one of her Theren folk in danger she would likely have been unable to stop herself from rushing to their aid. She wondered if Liandrin had been lying about Rand and the others being in danger. Supposedly Aes Sedai could not. Supposedly. The people who had taken her friends, the Seanchan the man had called them, were obviously dangerous. The Falmerans had been fighting them for months if the rumours she had heard held any truth. She would stand a much better chance of rescuing Min and Elayne if she could find help from the locals, though she dreaded to think of what might become of the girls while in the invaders’ hands.

She took a firm hold of her braid. “I am Nynaeve al’Meara,” she said. “Take me to these friends of yours, stranger.”

The twist of his lips might almost have qualified as a smile. “Name’s Nafanyel. I think my ‘friends’ will like you.”

She sniffed and watched him carefully.

He led her first to a copse of trees where his horse waited. Once he had mounted up they turned east. She hoped that once they found Nafanyel’s friends she could stop being afraid and start being angry. The breeze freshened, cool and brisk with a hint of cold yet to come. She looked back towards the setting sun as she rode.  _ Hold on Min, Elayne. I will come for you, I promise _ .

* * *

The closed helm made it impossible to see his face and kept even his eyes in shadow. She had felt Lan’s disapproval when he looked at the captain and at each of the Valreio soldiers they had passed, though his own countenance might as well be a mask for all the expression that he showed. Moiraine shared her Warder’s vexation, but for a different reason.

“I understand your orders, Captain Stroud, but surely you realise that Riela Selene did not intend for these restrictions to apply to Aes Sedai. She is much ... wiser, than that,” she said coolly.

“I suspect you are right, Alys Sedai,” he said in a voice still deep despite the muffling helmet, “but I am honour bound to obey the commands she has given me, not the commands I think she might give. Please accept my apologies for any inconvenience this causes you.”

Moiraine studied him in silence, her thoughts whirling through possibilities. She could force her way through. It was unlikely that the Valreio soldiers would actually attack her; their nation was almost as firmly tied to Tar Valon as Andor was, though the rivalry between those two lands had soured relations somewhat in recent times. And even if they did attack she was confident she could deflect their blows. Stroud displayed the heron on his blade, a fact which had been enough to win him Lan’s focus, but what did such things matter to one who could wield the One Power?

Siuan would not thank her though. No. Thanks would be the opposite of what she could expect if she started a conflict with Selene’s forces. The alternative was to comply with the Riela’s orders, visit her capital and obtain permission to pass the blockade. It would cost her several days travel, possibly force her involvement in Valreio politics and, most egregiously of all, force her to trumpet her activities to those whose attention she wanted to avoid.

Moiraine was intent on secrecy now more than ever. The reports her eyes and ears had sent from Cairhien had troubled her. But far worse was the silence that had followed Rand’s visit to Stedding Tsofu. Three months was far too long without word.  _ Someone should have seen them by now _ . She shook her head. She refused to believe he could be dead, the Pattern would not allow it. Could not.  _ I have come too far for it all to fall apart now. Toman Head. All signs point to a convergence on Toman Head _ .

Most men, even experienced soldiers, squirmed when she stared at them as long as she had Stroud, but that mask hid his face so completely that for all she knew he could have been rolling his eyes at her.

She turned her back on him without another word. Arguing would only make her, and by extension, the Tower, look weak. So she surrounded herself in cold grace and remounted Aldieb.

The Whitecloak Inquisitor, Jaichim Carridin stood by a distant tent surrounded by a dozen of his men, watching her intently. She knew his thoughts and did not deign to look at him directly. He and his ilk would give much to put their hands on an Aes Sedai, but she did not think even they would dare attack her in Valreis. Not openly at least. The roads could be perilous for any traveller, even an Aes Sedai. Stroud had, quite bluntly, ordered two dozen of his men to stand between him and the Whitecloaks when he first saw her approach and they remained there now, nervously fingering the hilts of their swords and eyeing the zealots in their midst.

Of greater interest than Carridin was what his presence represented. Why had Selene allowed the Whitecloaks a presence in Valreis? She didn’t think for a moment that the woman had converted to their views. Perhaps it had something to do with Almoth Plain. That all but abandoned land lay between Valreis and Amadicia, home of the Children. If one or both nations had designs upon it ... She was almost certain Almoth Plain was not the place spoken of in the prophecy Verin had found, but could she be mistaken?

Lan said nothing as they rode through the large, well-established camp, though she could guess his thoughts from what drifted through the bond they shared. Wariness was first among them, he strove to watch everyone in the camp, from the armoured soldiers to the farriers, teamsters and washerwoman who worked to provide them all they needed. Curiosity came next, he wondered what path she would set them on. Pity rose to match it when they passed a group of bedraggled refugees, Falmerans by their dress, who were being turned back towards the mountain pass by helmeted and armoured Valreio soldiers. The refugees pleas only hardened the Valreio against them. None were allowed to pass into or out of Toman Head without Selene’s direct order, and that included mothers desperately trying to ferry their children away from the war that raged on the other side of the mountains. Moiraine’s lips tightened. She suspected her Damodred ancestors would have liked Selene. The woman had much in common with them.

The camp was large and well-established. It had grown to all but become a town in the months since the blockade began, albeit a town of mud and tents. Several travelling merchants had paused their travelling long enough to form a market square of sorts. She knew without looking that their wares would be overpriced. And that they would be eyeing the surrounding soldiers warily, ever wondering if their clients would decide to simply take what they wanted.

“There is more than one pass through the Zandarakh Mountains. I could lead you to one of the smaller ones,” Lan said, when they were safely outside the range of any listeners.

“With all the conflicts that have arisen over the years between these two nations, I would expect that none of the passes are secret, to either side. It is likely that there will be similar camps.”

Lan said nothing. He knew she was right.

“I mislike both paths offered. I believe I shall take a third one,” she announced, though the prospect filled her with trepidation. The last time she had travelled the Ways had brought them much closer to disaster than she would have liked.

Lan was no fool. “I see. The nearest  _ steddings _ are along the River Ivo. Four of them. Perhaps between the four we can find an Ogier to Guide us.”

“And if not that I will procure a book on the Guides and study them myself. The Ways have a part to play in this, Lan. We overlooked them once and let the Shadow steal a march on us. We cannot afford to make that mistake again.”

When they left the camp behind they rode north into the wilds. Moiraine did not want to give any watchers a hint as to her destination. Lan doubled back often to obscure their tracks. Only when they were far beyond sight did they turn east again, back the way they had come. She consoled herself with the thought that she could make up for lost time by using the Ways, but even that reassurance was dependant on their surviving another journey through that tainted place. Whatever was going to happen on Toman Head, she knew she had to be there. Letting Rand believe he could run free had been necessary to dampen his resentment, to prevent him from railing against her and thereby making her work even more difficult. Children his age often required careful handling. But she could not allow him to ruin all she had worked for these past decades. She would not.


	26. Training

CHAPTER 54: Training

From the narrow window of her tiny room under the eaves, one of a number roughly walled together from whatever had been there before, Elayne could see the garden where  _ damane _ were being walked by their  _ sul’dam _ . Walked in the same manner one might walk a pet dog, for that was the Seanchan saw them as, dangerous animals who needed to be firmly leashed.

It had been several gardens before the Seanchan knocked down the walls that separated them and took the big houses to keep their  _ damane _ . The trees were all but leafless, but the  _ damane _ were still taken out for air, whether they wanted it or not. Elayne watched the garden because Renna was down there, talking with another  _ sul’dam _ , and as long as she could see Renna, then Renna was not going to enter and surprise her. She had had more than enough surprises in the week since she arrived on Toman Head.

Liandrin’s betrayal and the arrival of these invaders who flew the banner of Artur Hawkwing and claimed to be his descendants had been shocking enough. The very idea that something like  _ damane _ could exist could shake anyone. But there had been something else that troubled her, something she only thought to wonder about days into her imprisonment, during one of Min’s visits.

“Do you think it was all lies, Min?” Elayne had asked after her friend’s efforts to cheer her had lulled. “What Liandrin told us about Rand being in danger I mean? Aes Sedai do not lie.”

Min was silent for a time, no doubt remembering all Elayne had told her of the oaths a woman took on being raised to full Aes Sedai, oaths spoken holding a  _ ter’angreal _ that bound her to keep them. One of the Three Oaths was “To speak no word that is not true.”

“Everyone back home in Baerlon used to say that the truth an Aes Sedai said might not be the truth you thought you heard,” Min had said at last, in an uncharacteristically grim voice. “He’s probably fine. It was Nynaeve they were after. And we bundled ourselves into the trap along with her.” She lowered her voice. “We should focus on finding a way out of it now.”

“You’re right,” Elayne had sighed, but no matter how she turned it around in her head she could not see how Liandrin’s words had not been a direct violation of her Oath. Or understand how that could be.

She knew watching Renna wasn’t enough to keep her safe. Some other  _ sul’dam _ might come—there were many more  _ sul’dam _ than  _ damane _ , and every  _ sul’dam _ wanted her turn wearing a bracelet; they called it being complete—but Renna still had charge of her training, and it was Renna who wore her bracelet four times out of five. If anyone came, they would find no impediment to entering. There were no locks on the doors of  _ damane _ ’s rooms.

Elayne’s room held only a hard, narrow bed, a washstand with a chipped pitcher and bowl, one chair and a small table, but it had no room for more.  _ Damane _ had no need of comfort, or privacy, or possessions.  _ Damane _ were possessions. Min had a room just like this, in another house, but Min could come and go as she would, or almost as she would. Seanchan were great ones for rules, and enforced them as rigidly as if they were laws; they had more rules, for everyone, than the White Tower did for Novices, and more laws than Andor had or would ever have.

At least she hoped so. The bones of Queen Nora no longer decorated the square outside Elayne’s prison but the High Lord who ruled Falme in place of its rightful Queen still squatted in the looming Divalaird. Elayne had been outraged at the Falmerans when first she was brought to the city. They walked the streets of their own capital mostly unmolested, yet she had not seen a single sign of resistance during her time here. No enemy barracks burned, no brave partisans fought in the streets to free their countrymen. The folk of the city wandered around pretending not to notice the invaders in their midst. She had told herself it would never have happened this way if the Seanchan had presumed to attack Andor. A week’s imprisonment had robbed her of her righteous indignation. How were they to fight monsters and channelers? Elayne had been plagued by nightmares lately, horrid dreams of her mother dying by slow impalement, screaming, weeping. Dreams of Andor suffering under Seanchan rule, its people dragged off to be sold like cattle. Those who were lucky enough to escape the collars.  _ Just dreams _ , she told herself.  _ The Seanchan could never conquer Andor, or Tar Valon. Even if they did use the One Power in battle ... _

Elayne made sure to stand far back from the window. She did not want any of the women below to look up and see the glow that she knew surrounded her as she channelled the One Power, probing delicately at the collar around her neck, searching futilely; she could not even tell whether the band was woven or made of links—sometimes it seemed one, sometimes the other—but it seemed all of a piece all the time. It was only a tiny trickle of the Power, the merest drip that she could imagine, but it still beaded sweat on her face and made her stomach clench. That was one of the properties of the  _ a’dam _ ; if a  _ damane _ tried to channel without a  _ sul’dam _ wearing her bracelet, she felt sick, and the more of the Power she channelled, the sicker she became. Lighting a candle beyond the reach of her arm would have made Elayne vomit. Once Renna had ordered her to juggle her tiny balls of light with the bracelet lying on the table. Remembering still made her shudder.

Now, the silver leash snaked across the bare floor and up the unpainted wooden wall to where the bracelet hung on a peg. The sight of it hanging there made her jaws clench with fury. A dog leashed so carelessly could have run away. If a  _ damane _ moved her bracelet as much as a foot from where it had last been touched by a  _ sul’dam _ ... Renna had made her do that, too—had made her carry her own bracelet across the room. Or try to. She was sure it had only been minutes before the  _ sul’dam _ snapped the bracelet firmly on her own wrist, but to Elayne the screaming and the cramps that had had her writhing on the floor had seemed to go on for hours.

She hoped in vain for a tap on her door, for Min to poke her head in and smile her warm, comforting smile. She had been allowed to visit every day for the first week, but then, for no reason they could discern, her visits had been cut back. Renna had said that Min would still be allowed to come see her, but only once a week now. Elayne had thought it over and come to a hateful realisation. They were going to take Min away from her forever. Oh, they would let her visit a few more times, but only a few. A little honey to make the bitter medicine go down easier. Until Elayne got used to being alone, used to being no-one’s friend, no-one’s lover, used to being nothing but  _ damane _ . It was all part of her training. She watched the women outside being led around meekly by their leashes and felt a blinding fury. One that was drowned all too soon by the realisation that she could soon be out there with them.

Elayne had never accounted herself brave, but she had not expected to find herself a coward. _Mother had better marry Gareth Bryne and have another daughter as soon as she can. I am not fit to take the throne_. Andor would need a strong Daughter-Heir if they were to defeat the Seanchan, someone much stronger than Elayne Trakand.

She hoped there was such a woman. Perhaps the most horrifying thing she had seen during her captivity had been the Aes Sedai. Two of them, leashed and collared like so many other women.

Ryma had looked exhausted, as though she had not been allowed to sleep in days. The  _ sul’dam _ kept calling her Pura, and every time she refused to answer to the name, every time she insisted that she was Ryma Galfrey, an Aes Sedai of the Yellow Ajah, they had done something with the  _ a’dam _ , something that set the Aes Sedai to howling in agony and sent tears streaming down her ageless face. Elayne had watched it happen, a white-faced, silent little girl who lacked the courage to stand up and demand they stop, for fear they would do the same to her.

She had seen the second Aes Sedai prisoner yesterday but had not had the chance to speak to her. Not that she had seemed inclined to speak to anyone. A Cairhienin by her appearance, she had stared at nothing and no-one, as though shocked by a sudden loss. Ryma had called out to her, and mentioned the Blue Ajah before the  _ sul’dam _ turned her words to screams. The other Aes Sedai had not responded.

There had been no sign of Nynaeve. That was one of the few comforts she could take in her captivity. If Nynaeve had escaped then perhaps she could spread word to those who might come to their rescue. And if not that, then at least one of them had been spared.

Despite her best efforts to compose herself, Elayne still jumped when she heard the door opening. Her mother would be ashamed of her, she knew, her grandmother and grandmother’s grandmother, too.

Renna entered, clad in the uniform dress that all  _ sul’dam _ wore. Elayne could not believe she had ever looked at her and thought her pretty. She was a monster. Shadowspawn in human skin. All the  _ sul’dam _ were. Today she had brought a second  _ a’dam _ , though Elayne could not guess the purpose.

She studied Elayne for a moment and her face gave no sign of what she saw.

“You cannot find ores in the ground unfortunately. But I thought of something else we could test for. It is even rarer, but perhaps ...”

Elayne watched sharply as the  _ sul’dam _ took down the bracelet, opened it, and fastened it again around her wrist. She could not see how it was done. If she could have probed with the One Power she would have, but Renna would have known that immediately. As the bracelet closed around Renna’s wrist a look came onto the  _ sul’dam _ ’s face that made Elayne’s heart sink.

“You have been channelling.” Renna’s voice was deceptively mild; there was a spark of anger in her eyes. “You know that is forbidden except when we are complete.” Elayne wet her lips. “Perhaps I have been too lenient with you.”

Renna gave a little sigh, a long-suffering sigh, as of a patient teacher whose patience was wearing thin. “First, let us see what we have in you.” She took the chair and crossed her legs. She held the second  _ a’dam _ in her hands and studied it with intense concentration. Elayne could not tell what, if anything, she was doing. Only the barest trickle of the One Power was flowing through her, and it wasn’t being spun in any particular way that she could tell. Whatever it was she did, Renna’s face lit up, and a delighted smile crawled across her lips. “Well, well,” she purred. “Perhaps you are special after all.”

Despite herself, Elayne had to ask, “What do you mean?”

“Not many  _ damane _ can make copies of the  _ a’dam _ ,” Renna explained cheerfully. “No matter how hard we try to force them. But you can. You will serve the Empire well, especially with so many  _ damane _ to collar, here in these new lands.”

Elayne shuddered. They would use her to make more  _ a’dam _ , then use the  _ a’dam _ to collar more women, and each time a woman was collared with an  _ a’dam _ of her making it would be partially her fault. Her stomach roiled at the horror of it.  _ I have to get away from these creatures somehow. Before they make me into a ... a pet instead of a person. Or worse, use me against my people _ . But she didn’t know how to escape. Every path she had tried so far had been blocked, most of them by the simple fact of the  _ a’dam _ that was always around her throat, choking her.  _ I wish Rand was here. Or my brothers, even Galad. Or all three, with Gareth Bryne and the Amyrlin Seat and an army ten times the size of the Seanchan’s _ . As well wish to fly. They were all far, far away, and no-one even knew why she had left Tar Valon, much less where she had gone. How could they ever find her? She sighed, and wondered briefly why she had thought of Rand first when she dreamed of rescue. He did have a strange way of intruding on her thoughts.

Renna set the spare  _ a’dam _ aside and gave it a satisfied pat.

When she turned her attention back to Elayne, the look in her eyes was enough to make her blood run cold. “Perhaps you believe that because you are valuable now, you will be allowed license. Perhaps you believe because I have been so kind to you, despite your behaviour, that you can channel without permission and escape punishment. You are wrong. You have been a bad  _ damane _ . I think I made a mistake letting you keep your old name. I had a kitten called Tuli when I was a child. From now on, your name is Tuli. I must punish you severely for this. We will both be called to the Court of the Nine Moons—you for what you can do; I as your  _ sul’dam _ and trainer—and I will not allow you to disgrace me in the eyes of the Empress. I will stop when you tell me how much you love being  _ damane _ and how obedient you will be after this. And, Tuli. Make me believe every word.”

Coward that she was, Elayne trembled at the thought of what was coming. But she found at least a smidgeon of courage, enough to say in a high-voice, “My name is Elayne Trakand. I am a Novice at the White Tower. I am the Daughter-Heir of Andor. I will not answer to any other name. And I will not say what you told me to say, I will not be a  _ damane _ .”

She held to that mantra for as long as she could, as her body twisted and pain stabbed through her mind. Even as she burned without blisters she refused to say what Renna wanted her to say, but no matter how hard she tried she could not stop herself from weeping, nor silence the screams that turned her throat raw. Her own screams were the last thing she heard before darkness closed in around her.


	27. The Hope of Falmerden

CHAPTER 55: The Hope of Falmerden

Nynaeve’s new companion had proven to be a man of few words. He was a bit like Lan in that regard, but where Lan’s stern silence masked hidden depths, Nafanyel’s dour face was simply a reflection of his mood, or perhaps his nature. He struck her as a man awash in misery, but whatever it was that he brooded on day after day he didn’t chose to share it with her, and she did not ask. She was too busy worrying over her missing friends, and wondering whether she had made a terrible mistake in trusting the strange Falmeran.

Nafanyel led her east for several days, avoiding the roads even if it meant leading their horses over dangerously steep hills. Better to risk a broken leg than capture by the Seanchan patrols, he claimed. When she put forward the notion that they might outrun their pursuers—Natti Cauthon had loaned her a fast, if ill-tempered, horse, and she had managed to escape the Seanchan once already after all—Nafanyel shook his head grimly and recounted a wild tale of men who rode scaled, three-eyed cats as large as horses that could outpace even the swiftest steed. Nynaeve spent the rest of that day eyeing him askance and wondering if the Pattern was perverse enough to place her in the company of a second male channeler.

She saw the truth of his claims the next day, when a patrol of armoured men on the backs of half a dozen beasts every bit as bizarre as Nafanyel had described raced along the path below the incline where they hid. The creatures moved with a speed and a predatory grace that sent shivers down Nynaeve’s spine. When Nafanyel claimed that the Seanchan also controlled giant birds which their best scouts rode on the back of she did not doubt him.

“The Seanchan control nearly half the county now,” he had told her that first night as they huddled around their small fire eating a meagre supper. “Everything west of the Knotwood. If the forest wasn’t so thick and my people didn’t know it so well the invaders would control it, too. Everyone who has met them in open combat has died, including almost all the noble houses of the western realm.” He grimaced as he recounted his countrymen’s litany of defeats. “The Seanchan ... Well. All those who might have organised a resistance against them have been killed,” he continued, while grinding his teeth. “All except King Kaelan and General Surtir. They are holed up at Fortress Calranell with the bulk of what’s left of Falmerden, including our new Queen. Though Evelin is only seventeen, so I doubt her father or the General will be letting her do much in the way of ruling.”

“Is that where you’re taking me?” she had asked.

Nafanyel stared into the fire morosely. “Yes,” he said at last. Then he announced his intention to take first watch and put an end to that conversation.

Nynaeve slept with her back to a tree or a moss-covered rock whenever possible, propping herself up as she dozed fitfully with her cloak wrapped tight around her shoulders. Underneath she was sure to keep a firm grip on the hilt of her beltknife. Despite his seemingly earnest help, she wasn’t sure she could trust this Nafanyel. The shadow of Liandrin’s betrayal lingered on her mind each night of their journey. She dreamt of Min and Elayne in torment, and sometimes of Rand tormented right alongside them. That last she dismissed. Rand was probably warming his feet in front of Lord Agelmar’s fire in Fal Dara by now. Liandrin had just told her whatever she felt would lure her into this trap.  _ I can’t worry about him, now. I have to think about Min and Elayne _ . With each step of the journey east her conscious insisted she turn around and rush to their aid. But she stamped it down.  _ I can’t help them by myself _ , she reasoned.  _ Probably. There’s much more hope of success if I can persuade this king to get off his backside and do his job _ .

Nafanyel was visibly relieved when they reached the outskirts of a thickly-treed forest that reminded Nynaeve of the Waterwood back home. “Our only real victories have come through ambushes,” he murmured. “And most of those in that forest. It’s the only thing that has stalled the Seanchan invasion. That and their own cautiousness. They seem content to hold Falme and wait for ... I know not what. Regardless, we’ll be much safer once we get under that canopy.” He put his heels to his horse’s ribs and galloped off. Nynaeve was quick to follow.

The Knotwood proved a rich hunting ground and Nynaeve was happy to take the opportunity to down a rabbit with her sling. When she drew rein and dismounted to gather her supper she noticed Nafanyel staring at her with naked shock.

“I didn’t think Aes Sedai did stuff like that,” he said. Even while surprised his voice retained a harsh growl.

“I can do a lot of things,” she cautioned him with a stern look. She tied her rabbit to the saddle and remounted, making sure to give her guide a good glare as she did so. She decided she would set up some snares once they made camp. Dried rations were no proper replacement for a hot meal. And it would help show this Falmeran that she was not a woman to be taken lightly.

“What sort of man is this Kaelan?” she asked, later that evening. “Why hasn’t he thrown these invaders out of the country yet? That’s a king’s job surely. In so much as they have jobs.”

Nafanyel looked amused. “I heard ... someone once say that they think of Kaelan as much as Kaelan thinks at all. He’s a very handsome man, and that’s all Queen Nora wanted from her consort. Though that didn’t prevent her from taking other lovers, if you believe the rumours. Princess Evelin doesn’t bear much resemblance to either of her parents, you understand.”

Nynaeve sniffed at that. And stared at Nafanyel in silence until the smirk disappeared from his lips. “That doesn’t explain why he isn’t fighting back,” she said.

Her guide sighed. “I don’t know why. If I had to guess I’d say it was the General’s doing. Kaelan would be wise to listen to him ... usually. Syoman Surtir is the main reason we won our most recent war against Valreis. But he hates the Valreio with a passion. And if he leads his army west to fight the Seanchan then he will be leaving the border undefended if Valreis decides to invade again.” He shrugged. “Either way, he’s screwed.”

“Mind your language,” Nynaeve said distractedly. If Nafanyel’s assessment was accurate she would have her work cut out for her budging these men. It was a shame their Queen had not survived. A fellow woman would surely have been more open to reason.

“I have much to think on,” she announced then. “You take first watch. Wake me when you get too tired.” She ignored the man’s sour look as she settled herself near the dying fire. If she told the King that she was an Aes Sedai he might be more inclined to listen to her. She hated the thought of lying, especially about something like that, but she would do whatever it took to save her friends.

They had been travelling together for more than a week and were nearing the far side of the Knotwood when she saw the lightning. It was a clear, if chilly day, and she did not need her weather sense to know that that had been no natural storm; the tell-tale threads of  _ saidar _ woven in the air around the lightning bolt were plain to see now. Her training in Tar Valon had been worth that much, humiliating and frustrating as it had been.

_ Seanchan ... or Aes Sedai? _ Little as she loved the White Tower, there could be no denying which of the two factions she would rather find nearby.

Nafanyel was scanning the woods around them. The trees had been growing sparser with each mile they covered today. “We’ll turn back for a while,” he said. “Wait it out in the deep woods. The Seanchan will finish their business and march back to their outposts surrounding Falme, they never really come east in force. We just need to wait.”

Nynaeve tugged at her braid. The spike of fear that had assailed her when the lightning first struck had faded. And left in its place a good hot anger. She felt  _ saidar _ fill her. “I want to see who was channelling just now. If it was an Aes Sedai they can help me. And if not ...”

The Falmeran looked at her incredulously. “Don’t be foolish. There’s probably an army over there. With more of those leashed Aes Sedai.”

“I am never foolish,” she said, scowling at him. The silly man was probably thinking with the hair on his chest. What else would make him say something like that?

Nynaeve dug her heels into Muscles flanks and set off towards the dim sound of battle. Cursing under his breath, Nafanyel followed.

When the sounds grew louder and the trees more sparse, Nynaeve dismounted and tied Muscles’ reins to a branch, before creeping forward. She called to mind all that her father had taught her of woodcraft and kept low and out of the sightline of her prey while making sure to place her feet carefully. She followed a low incline, where patches of old snow from the fall of two days past still lingered, and came at last to a likely spot to spy from. A pair of gnarled old leatherleafs sheltered a patch of brown and leafless brambles which should hide her well. She crept towards them and crawled up the incline to peer between the gaps in the foliage. She paid little heed to the dirt that got on her dress. She had had little opportunity to bathe or change in the past week and Elayne would likely have considered the dress beyond saving at this point. Nynaeve would fix it when she got a chance. For now there were more important things.

The rolling field below was littered with corpses. At a glance she could tell that most were Falmerans, clad as they were in furs and leathers just like Nafanyel’s, if often rougher looking. But for all their fancy lacquered armour the Seanchan had taken quite a few casualties of their own. Those were being dragged to a central area by the victors of the battle. The Falmeran dead were left where they lay. It was hard to tell, but she thought there had to be at least two hundred dead. The sight sickened Nynaeve. It was such a waste of life, Seanchan and Falmeran both. In the sky far to the north she saw a dark shape wheel in a long looping circle. And close by was a group of disarmed Falmeran prisoners kneeling with their hands placed upon their heads. Armed and armoured Seanchan soldiers watched them carefully. Two women in red and blue dresses stood among the Seanchan, and each of them held a silvery leash around the neck of the grey-robed woman kneeling at her feet.

Nynaeve wondered if the women could sense her holding  _ saidar _ . Now that she had managed to grasp it she had no intention of releasing. But she had to fight a sudden urge to go back the way she had come.  _ Coward! You should use the Power to smash these Seanchan. And free those prisoners! _ A mounted man crested a rise in the distance, riding something that was definitely not a horse. She stayed where she was and fumed quietly. There looked to be almost a hundred Seanchan left standing. That was far too many for her to fight. Telling herself that didn’t make her feel better though. Not when one of the soldiers backhanded a kneeling Falmeran across the face with his gauntleted fist and growled something she couldn’t make out in his slurred accent. The Falmeran answered with a look of defiance.

“Burn me,” breathed Nafanyel. Nynaeve scowled across at him and tried to pretend she had noticed him moving to join her at her vantage point. “Is that ...? It is, Shadow take it all.”

He was staring at the prisoners. And at one in particular, Nynaeve thought as she followed his gaze. One of the leash-holding women, pale and yellow-haired, was fingering the garb of the sole female prisoner. The prisoner had hair of a similar colour to Elayne’s, but that was the end of the resemblance. Even kneeling she looked tall, and she was muscular enough that she might have been able to overpower Alsbet Luhhan, if women were fool enough to take part in such violent contests. Her long face and heavy jaw were stubbornly set and she met her captor’s eyes proudly. The dark, high-necked and fur-lined dress she wore, that the Seanchan now carefully examined, looked well-made and expensive and, combined with her ample bosom, was enough to offset an appearance that might unkindly have been described as “mannish”.

“The girl. That’s Princess Evelin,” Nafanyel whispered in an aside as he stared down at the scene.

Nynaeve wondered fleetingly how he knew what the Falmeran princess looked like, but the thought was quickly drowned beneath a pair of realisations. If she freed the princess and took her back to her father she would have won their gratitude, surely enough to ask them to return the favour and help her rescue Min and Elayne. And if she brought news to the King and his general that the Seanchan had taken their princess back to Falme with them her father would have to go and face the invaders at last. How could he not? Nynaeve weighed her options. The heroic thing to do would be to charge down there and free the prisoners. It was what most men would have done. And they would probably have gotten themselves killed in the process. The sensible thing to do would be to go to Calranell and tell the army there what she had seen. Nynaeve nodded to herself.

“They recognise the crest,” Nafanyel said bitterly. “The Warhounds. How could they not? It’s the same one Queen Nora wore, before they had her impaled.” He clutched his bow in his white-knuckled hands and sneered at something only he could see.

“Impaled ...” Nynaeve whispered. It was a horrifying thought.

Below Seanchan soldiers were pulling Evelin clear of the group of prisoners. The woman in the blue and red dress wore a look of immense satisfaction as she spoke to a man in a plumed helmet.

Her satisfaction turned to surprise when several of the prisoners, red-faced and shouting loudly, surged to their feet and lunged at the Seanchan guarding them. They had no weapons, and their foes wore armour from head to heel but the fools still charged. The Seanchan soldiers did not flinch. Swords flashed out of lacquered sheathes and each of the would-be heroes was swiftly slain. Evelin spun around, wrenching momentarily free of her captors. She raised a hand in a forbidding gesture towards her countrymen, and though Nynaeve could not hear her words she understood them well. Don’t throw your lives away for me.

Nynaeve glanced at Nafanyel, who was still clutched that bow of his. “She’s right. There’s nothing we could do against so many. But if we tell her father about what happened here, then perhaps we can free her before ...” She tailed off, not wanting to say it.  _ Impalement. What a horrible way to die _ .

“Fathers aren’t always as nice as you think,” he muttered, not meeting her eyes. “You’ll learn that soon enough.”

Several Seanchan were leading their prize away while others kept a sharpened vigil on the prisoners. Nynaeve thought it a good time to creep away and pushed back from the bramble bush. She and Nafanyel made their way back to their horses, quietly and carefully.

“How much farther is it to Calranell?” she asked as she untied Muscles’ reins.

Nafanyel had that dour, broody look on his face again. “Calranell?” he said, distractedly. “About two days if we take the roads. They might be safe this far east. But I wouldn’t want to risk it, a more round-about route would be best.”

She thought about it briefly, then shook her head.  _ Impalement. _ “No. We’ll take the roads from here. I don’t want to waste a minute more than I have to.”

The Falmeran stared at her with his pale eyes for a long moment. He opened his mouth angrily, then let it drift shut again with the words unsaid. “So be it,” he growled after a long pause.

At Nynaeve’s insistence they pressed on long after the winter sun had fallen and most sensible travellers would have made camp. She told herself her need was urgent enough that risking a fall by travelling in the dark was necessary, but that didn’t stop each dip her increasingly nervous horse trotted down from making her heart catch in her throat.

“Are you trying to break your own neck?” Nafanyel asked rudely. By then she had no more than dim moonlight to see by and was glad he was similarly afflicted so he could not see her blush. He was right she knew. Stopping was the sensible thing to do. But she could hardly stop now that he had all but demanded she do so. Stubbornly Nynaeve pressed on into the dark for just long enough that her guide could not think she had stopped when he told her to.

“This looks like a good spot to make camp,” she announced at last into the pitch darkness.

She heard her companion draw rein behind her, then heard nothing save his horse’s nervous whinnying. After a while he dismounted, muttering quietly to himself. She could make out barely one word in three, but it was something like “How the hell did I get myself involved in this?” She distinctly heard the word “Madwoman”, too. Nynaeve glared in his general direction and it was just his good luck that the fool could not see her face in the gloom.

Eventually, after much more fuss than the task warranted, Nafanyel managed to get a fire going and they settled down for the remainder of the night.

He had been wrong about their destination as well. They caught sight of the watchfires of Calranell just before sunset of the next day. Though admittedly Nynaeve had had to ride her poor horse to near exhaustion in order to arrive so soon.

Nafanyel stopped his horse in the middle of the road and nodded to himself in satisfaction. “Calranell. As I promised. You’re on your own from here Aes Sedai. I have business elsewhere.”

Nynaeve was a little surprised. “You aren’t going to join your king and general, Falmeran? I thought, given the way you’ve spoken of the Seanchan, that you would jump at the chance to fight back against them.”

He looked away with a bitter twist of his lips. “It’s not that simple,” he muttered. “My father will have been expecting me back weeks ago. Good luck with the General, Nynaeve. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope we never meet again.” With that final insult, and a wry smile, he turned his horse aside from the road and took off over the rolling hills of Falmerden.

Nynaeve sniffed at his departing form. Just when she was starting to trust him, too. Typical man. She gathered her reins and set off towards the distant fort, hoping the two men within would prove to be better examples of their gender.

Calranrell’s walls were not as graceful or as tall as those of Tar Valon; instead of fused white stone they were made of massive slabs of grey rock, piled one atop the other. No Ogier had built this stronghold, only men, and defence had been the only thing on their minds when they did so, in her estimation. The fortress sat on a rocky promontory near the mouth of a mountain pass. Any traffic through the mountains would have to travel beneath the walls of the fort, and within range of the defenders atop them. There seemed to be only one entrance, and that was across a long, narrow bridge that spanned a chasm on Calranrell’s western side. She made her way towards it.

The guards at the bridge called for her to halt as soon as she came into earshot. They were a hard-bitten lot, with dull metal breastplates, dark, fur-lined cloaks, and suspicious scowls.

“I am Nynaeve al’Meara,” she called, raising her hand and making sure they could see the golden Great Serpent ring on her finger. “I’ve come from Tar Valon on urgent business. Tell me where I can find your king, or this Syoman fellow, and be quick about it.”

The men exchanged looks. The oldest of them gave a sigh and took a step forward. “You claim you’re an Aes Sedai?” he asked.

Nynaeve pressed her lips together.  _ I most certainly do not!  _ she wanted to say. “Is that not what I said?” she growled instead. “Did you not see the ring? Take me to your leader, this is ...”—The words caught in her throat but she forced them out.  _ I have to help my friends— _ “... Tower business.” Burn her, how had it come to this? She should be back in the Theren making sure her folk took care of themselves and behaved properly, not running around pretending to be a damned Aes Sedai and bullying folk with the threat of the White Tower.

“Well, you don’t talk like a Seanchan at least,” the man muttered. “Come with me, I’ll take you to the captain.”

Nynaeve rode across the wooden bridge slowly, though she was tempted to get down and walk. From her vantage point atop Muscles’ back she could see down into the chasm but in the fading light it was impossible to see how far down the bottom was. She fought her dizziness as she followed the soldier towards Calranell proper. His plodding pace did not endear him to her.  _ I bet he’s going so slow in an effort to embarrass me. We’ll it won’t work! _ She focused her attention ahead and studied the chains and pulleys that linked the bridge to the walls of the fortress and allowed it to be raised if the defenders wanted to seal the gate completely. It was not a pretty place, Calranell, but it looked an effective stronghold. She hoped its owners would prove as effective against the Seanchan.

On the other side of the main gate was a sprawling courtyard perhaps ten times the size of the village green at Emond’s Field. All around it were buildings and towers made of the same grey stone as the walls that sheltered them. One tower, massive and round, loomed over all and from its peak flew a flag on which two red dogs fought over white and gold squares. The Warhounds, Nafanyel had called them. They were just what Nynaeve had hoped to see.

“Captain Cauthrien, sir,” her escort called, standing to attention. “This one claims to be an Aes Sedai and wants to talk to the General. Says her name is Nynaeve al’Meara.”

The soldier who turned to face them studied Nynaeve expressionlessly. She was a little surprised to find that the captain was a woman, one perhaps ten years her senior, with a stern and weathered face. She peered closely at the Great Serpent ring Nynaeve displayed but showed no reaction. Nynaeve wished her own composure was as firm.  _ Claims? Claims!? Is he calling me a liar? I should get down from this horse and box his ears _ .

“I am an Aes Sedai,” she insisted.

The other woman nodded. “Alix Cauthrien. Captain. Royal Falmerden Army,” she said, in a voice nearly as expressionless as her face. “My pleasure, Aes Sedai. May I ask where you are from? But for your dress and your accent you might have passed for a local woman ...”

“I’m not. I’m from the Theren. It’s far to the east of here.”

Alix nodded again, more firmly this time. “Far to the east,” she mused. “An Andoran district I think, and a pretty obscure one at that. I doubt the Seanchan would even know it exists. Return to your post Owen, I’ll take it from here.”

The guard saluted and went on his way.

“This way please,” Alix said, and led Nynaeve towards the tallest of the towers. Nynaeve studied her surreptitiously as they walked. Alix wore metal armour over most of her body, and carried a plumed helmet under her arm. The armour didn’t look as heavy as that she had become accustomed to seeing in Shienar but she still looked askance at it.  _ It must be exhausting to walk around carrying all that _ . The sword that was slung across Alix’s back resembled those that Lan and Rand carried but didn’t seem to have any heron markings on it.

“Are there many women in Falmerden’s army?” Nynaeve felt compelled to ask.

“No, just a few. It’s not forbidden, naturally. But most women I know prefer to leave such work to the men. Not because they’re afraid, of course. It’s just that men have certain natural advantages when it comes to physical labour like this, and it doesn’t do the matriarchy any favours when women decide to compete with men on an uneven playing field. It might give the lads ideas above their stations.” Alix smiled tightly. “Or so it has been explained to me, by many of the great ladies of Falmerden. And by my own mother, farmwife that she was.”

Nynaeve wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “I see,” was all she managed.

“It would be worse if I was a noble,” Alix continued. “Princess Evelin swings a mean longsword, but her mother made it very clear she expected her heir to leave such tasks to the army. If she’s going to insist on taking the field now, then it would be best if she had some training first. The battlefield isn’t a good place to be practicing.”

Alix sounded worried. And she had more reason to be so than she knew. Nynaeve considered sharing her news, but decided it would be best to wait until they met with the King.

The captain led her down grey stone hallways and up narrow stone steps. Calranell was a lightly-furnished place, save for the racks of weapons that seemed to sprout at every junction. Ensconced torches burned to light their path. There didn’t seem to be many servants in comparison to Fal Dara. Instead bearded, leather clad soldiers were tasked with maintaining the keep and feeding its inhabitants.

More soldiers stood guard at the tall wooden doors Alix led her to but they made no move to bar the captain’s way.

Nynaeve walked into the midst of a heated argument. Alix, having shoved the doors open, was quick to pull them closed again and shield her male “commanders” from the perked ears of those outside.

“... attacked by now? If they ever intended to. They must be as bored with this stand-off as I am.” The speaker was a handsome man, clean-shaven and bright eyed, with long golden hair that spilled to his shoulders. He sat in a chair by the fire and rolled his eyes expansively.

“Patience is key in any strategy. The Valreio know this. And so should you.” The second man had a voice well-suited to shouting, though he seemed to be keeping the volume down by an effort of will. He had a face well-suited to scowls, too, and he sent one across the map-laden table towards his companion. Shorter and more muscular than the first man, he was dark of hair and eye and had a rough-hewn look about him.

“For five months though? Come now, Syoman. We are waiting for an enemy that will never come.”

Syoman, the famed general, stabbed a finger onto the map before him. “There is an army on the other side of this pass, Kaelan. And it is not there to prevent a few hungry refugees from fouling the streets of Orlay, I promise you,” he growled.

“There is an army at Falme, too. One that killed our Queen, my wife,” said King Kaelan. If he was heart-broken over it, he hid his pain well.

“I am fully aware of that,” snarled the general. “In the west there is an army that holds a fortified position and can resupply at ease, using the only major port in this country. An army that will hold the advantage when we engage them, though engage them we will. When the time is right. But here our foe has a second army, one that against which  _ we _ hold the advantage. Until we have dealt with the Valreio we cannot afford to engage their catspaws.”

“Assuming the invaders are linked to the Winged Throne,” Kaelan said, raising a brow questioningly.

“If they are not, which I doubt, then you may be sure Selene will do her damnedest to take advantage of the opportunity they have given her.”

Nynaeve sniffed. “If there were three-eyed, half-cat, half-lizard creatures that stand as tall as horses wandering around Valreis I’m sure I would have heard of it. Wherever these Seanchan came from, it was somewhere very far away.”

The men broke off their quarrel and turned their attention to their guests at last.

Kaelan smiled in welcome. “Please forgive us for keeping you waiting, my dear.”

Syoman scowled at Alix. “Who is she, Cauthrien, and why have you brought her here?”

Nynaeve answered for herself. “I am Nynaeve al’Meara. Aes Sedai.” She displayed her ring yet again.

Syoman grunted. “Another one? You don’t have the face for it. Are you here with Sheraine or Ryma? What’s your Ajah?”

She was momentarily at a loss, but managed to keep her composure. She had never thought to pick a fake Ajah when she promoted herself to Aes Sedai. But there could be only one real choice; she was a healer after all. “I’m of the Yellow Ajah. And the rest is none of your business Master Surtir.” His scowl deepened, and even Alix shot her a cool glance. Nynaeve forged on hurriedly. “What you should have asked is why I’ve come. But even though you didn’t, I’ll tell you. Princess Evelin has been captured by the Seanchan, along with a dozen or so of her men. I saw them taken at the outskirts of the Knotwood, about a day and a half ago.”

Kaelan came to his feet in a flash. Standing, he proved to be tall as Rand, and as long-legged and broad-shouldered, too. “Evelin! You are certain of this? Light, I should never have let her lead that ambush.”

“It was her right to make the decision. And to bear the consequences,” said Syoman.

Kaelan rounded on him. “And it is your duty to assist her, General!” he declared, with the first hint of kingliness she had seen. Syoman sat back in his chair, and said nothing in response.

“Was she hurt?” Alix asked quietly.

Nynaeve shook her head, taking a firm grip on her braid. “No. Not yet at least. The Seanchan recognised the crest she wore and seemed well-pleased with themselves. They took her west, towards Falme.”

“As well they should be pleased. She’s the only female heir to the throne. We must recover her from them at all costs,” Kaelan said.

“Without her, what authority would you have?” muttered Syoman.

“How dare you, Syoman? Whatever our differences. Evelin is my daughter, as well as our Queen.”

A strange look crossed the general’s face. But if he was thinking of the same rumours Nafanyel had mentioned he at least had the grace not to bring them up. “There is still Nora’s son. The people might be more reluctant to accept a male monarch but we can work around that.”

Nynaeve bristled. “And what of the girl? Impaled like her mother? That can’t be allowed to happen. She, and all the other poor folk held prisoner by these invaders, must be rescued. I came here because I thought there might be some brave Falmerans willing to help me do it, but if you’d rather cower in fear of Valreis then perhaps I will just have to take on the Seanchan army by myself.”

Syoman’s face darkened dangerously. “Bravery and stupidity are often confused,” he growled. Alix was glancing back and forth between him and Nynaeve, looking conflicted. Syoman noticed her reaction and his frown grew deeper. He studied his thick, scarred knuckles in silence.

“Well no-one has ever accused me of being a coward,” declared Kaelan. “And I will not let these creatures harm my Evelin. I will ride with you, Nynaeve Sedai. You will see Falmerden rise in righteous fury!”

Alix folded her hands behind her back and stood at attention, her face studiously expressionless. Nynaeve wondered how many of the soldiers would follow this king against the Seanchan. She had a feeling it might not be enough.  _ It will have to be enough. It must _ . Syoman seemed unlikely to budge from his fort.

But the general surprised her. “The men would not abandon Nora’s daughter to Nora’s fate,” he said. “Not even if I asked it of them. Which I won’t.” He tossed his head angrily. “Burn me for a fool, we will march tomorrow. I just pray the men I leave here will be enough to delay the Valreio until I can deal with these Seanchan.”

Nynaeve let out a relieved sigh. There was hope yet. Hope to free Min and Elayne. And to make sure the Seanchan couldn’t hurt anyone else.

As the King and the General discussed their plans, Nynaeve recalled the soldiers who had thrown themselves at Evelin’s captors and died for it. How many more would join them? Both in fighting for their Queen ... and in dying? She wished there was another way, but she had to do what was necessary to save her friends.  _ Hold on just a little longer, Min. Elayne. I’m coming for you _ .


	28. Anything

CHAPTER 56: Anything

She tapped at the door and waited for a response.

“Min?” Elayne said. She sounded sick and exhausted, the poor thing.

She put on a brave face as she slipped inside and shut the door. She had to do what she could to keep Elayne’s spirits up. It wasn’t much, but it was all she could think of as she searched for a way to free them both. “Here I am for my weekly visit,” she announced cheerily.

Elayne looked drawn. Her skin, already so fair, now looked almost bloodless. She managed a wan smile at Min’s entrance, but it was a flitting thing and soon swallowed in misery. She looked even worse than she had last week, and last week had been enough to bring Min to tears. That had set Elayne off and they had ended up sobbing on each other’s shoulders. She was determined to be more helpful this time.

Elayne blinked at her and a spark of interest returned to her eyes. “You’re wearing a dress. I’ve never seen you in a dress before.”

“How do you like it?” Min asked. She spun in a little circle, showing off her dark green wool dress of Seanchan cut. A heavy, matching cloak hung over her arm. There was even a green ribbon catching up her dark hair, though her hair was hardly long enough for it. Her knife was still in its sheath at her waist, though. She had been surprised that they let her keep it. The Seanchan trusted everyone. Until they broke a rule. Min was inclined to break all their rules, but how to do it without getting caught, how to do it in such a way that would get Elayne away from them? Those were the questions. Many a night she had fantasised about just sticking her knife in the  _ sul’dam _ that tormented Elayne, especially that witch Renna, but after the fantasy was ended came the inevitable question. What then?

Elayne drank in the sight of her, slowly and carefully, as if savouring a last meal. “It’s pretty,” she said sadly. “You look very beautiful in it. But, why the change?”

“I haven’t gone over to the enemy, if that is what you are thinking. It was this, or else find someplace to stay out in the town, and maybe not be able to visit you again.” She started to straddle the chair as she would have in breeches, gave a wry shake of her head, and turned it around to sit. Skirts were such a chore, she had never understood why so many women insisted on wearing them. “ ‘Everyone has a place in the Pattern,’ ” she mimicked, making her voice as nasal as she could. “ ‘and the place of everyone must be readily apparent.’ That old hag Mulaen apparently got tired of not knowing what my place was on sight and decided I ranked with the serving girls. She gave me the choice. You should see some of the things Seanchan serving girls wear, the ones who serve the lords. It might be fun, but not unless I was betrothed, or, better yet, married. Well, there’s no going back. Not yet, anyway. Mulaen burned my coat and breeches.” She grimaced to show what she thought of that, but quickly restored her cheerful smile. Her captivity was a pleasant stroll in the garden compared to what the Seanchan were trying to do to Elayne. “It isn’t so bad,” she said with a laugh, “except that it has been so long since I wore skirts that I keep tripping over them.”

Three weeks in the Seanchan’s company, watching how they treated Elayne, had been more than enough to teach her to hate them. The Seanchan had burned Elayne’s clothes, too, in a manner not unlike the Aes Sedai practice of burning their new Novice’s possessions. Elayne had been left with nothing to wear except the dark grey dress of a  _ damane _ .  _ Damane _ have no possessions, it had been explained to her. The dress a  _ damane _ wears, the food she eats, the bed she sleeps in, are all gifts from her  _ sul’dam _ . If a  _ sul’dam _ chooses that a  _ damane _ sleep on the floor instead of in a bed, or in a stall in a stable, it is purely the choice of the  _ sul’dam _ . Mulaen, who had charge of the  _ damane _ quarters, had a droning nasal voice, but she was sharp with any  _ damane _ who did not remember every one of her rules. She had explained the sleeping arrangements to Min after she had found Elayne curled up on a small pile of straw in the stables, trying to sleep while fearfully watching the nearby  _ torm _ ; those giant creatures that looked like a cross between a cat and a lizard, if ever a cat or lizard had been as tall as a horse, or had three eyes. The Seanchan called them, and the rest of their bizarre menagerie, Exotics, and harnessed them for war. The cat-things had watched Min with their disturbingly intelligent eyes as she went to try and comfort Elayne. They had looked rather hungry, and the teeth they had bared were long and sharp. It had taken all her courage to walk past them towards her shivering friend.

“I brought you a present,” Min said now. “It’s not much, I’m afraid. Not much at all, but it’s all I could smuggle in.” She fished the flatbread and cheese out of her pocket and set them down on the small table, then pulled at the bodice of her dress so she could fish out the fruits she had hidden there. Thankfully the Seanchan hadn’t noticed how much bigger she had suddenly looked.

“Oh, oh it’s more than you know, Min. Thank you,” Elayne set upon the food like a starving woman. Min had noticed how much thinner she was getting. Slender as Elayne had already been, she was starting to look skeletal. Beds weren’t the only thing that a  _ damane _ must rely on the  _ sul’dam _ for, food, water and the right to sleep were parcelled out as favours by the hateful women and only  _ damane _ who obeyed and cringed in a way that pleased the  _ sul’dam _ received them. Or enough of them, at least. They would not starve Elayne so badly that she would die; in Seanchan eyes that would be a waste of a valuable slave.

Min made a fist as she watched Elayne cram her meagre gift into her mouth as though afraid a  _ sul’dam _ would arrive at any moment to take it away.  _ I have to get her out of here _ .

“I wish Rand were here.” Elayne sighed once she had finished eating. When Min looked at her quizzically she blushed and quickly added, “Well, he does have a sword. I wish we had somebody with a sword. Ten of them. A hundred.”

“It would be better than nothing but I’m not sure it would be enough,” said Min glumly. “The Falmerans have lots of swords and a reputation for knowing how to use them, but the Seanchan seem to be winning this war pretty easily.” She lowered her voice. “There might be a better way. Have you figured out how the  _ a’dam _ work yet? I can’t see a catch on them. They look to be all one big piece, but that can’t be true. They open and close somehow. We need to figure out how if we’re to escape.” She avoided looking at the collar Elayne wore, though not drawing attention to it would hardly make Elayne forget it was there. Here in the compound where the  _ damane _ were kept such collars were a common sight. Min had gotten her hands on a few and tried for hours to find a way to open them. But even with the most careful examination, holding the blasted thing so close to her face she could have kissed it, she could not find the catch or button. She was starting to fear it was a trick of the One Power, and therefore beyond her power to do anything about.

“I don’t think there will be any escape for me,” Elayne said, between bites of her plums. Her words echoed Min’s thoughts in a most depressing way. “Renna gave me a test. She wanted to know if I could make more  _ a’dam _ . And it seems I can.”

“It doesn’t seem any worse than the rest—not nearly as bad as making things explode like fireworks—but couldn’t you have lied? Told her you couldn’t?”

“You do not understand how this works.” Elayne tugged at the collar. “When Renna is wearing that bracelet, she knows what I am doing with the Power, and what I am not. Sometimes she even seems to know when she isn’t wearing it; she says  _ sul’dam _ develop an affinity after a while.” She sighed. “Apparently,” she said bitterly, “I am now too valuable to be wasted making things explode. Any  _ damane _ can do that; only a handful can make  _ a’dam _ . When the ships return to Seanchan, I am to be taken with them.”

“No,” Min breathed. But denials wouldn’t change facts. “When?”

Elayne shook her head sadly. “I don’t know. This is not the true invasion force, only their scouts. The  _ Hailene _ , it means Forerunners in the Old Tongue, were sent to map the way for the  _ Corenne _ , the Return, and if necessary to secure a foothold for the campaign of conquest that follows. Falme is their foothold. And when the scouts report back to their Empress, Renna and I are to go with them.”

Min’s smiles had vanished completely. They stared at each other. Suddenly Min slammed her fist into her open palm, wishing it was a Seanchan face. “There has to be a way out of here. There has to be a way to take that bloody thing off your neck!”

Elayne, her meal finished, sat on the narrow bed and leaned her head back against the wall. She looked very forlorn. “You know the Seanchan have collected every woman they’ve been able to find who can channel even a speck. They come from all over, not just from here in Falme, but from the fishing villages, and from farming towns inland. Their raiders have kidnapped Taraboner and Domani, though no Valreio so far, which is odd. They’re taken passengers off ships they’ve stopped. There are even two Aes Sedai among the prisoners. None have been able to escape.”

“Aes Sedai!” Min exclaimed. By habit she looked around to make sure no Seanchan had overheard her saying that name. As well name the Dark One, so far as the invaders were concerned. “Elayne, if there are Aes Sedai here, they can help us. Let me talk to them, and—”

“They can’t even help themselves, Min. I only talked to one, her name is Ryma; the  _ sul’dam _ don’t call her that, but that’s her name; she wanted to make sure I knew it. She told me in between bouts of tears. She’s Aes Sedai, and she was crying, Min! She has a collar on her neck, they make her answer to Pura, and she can’t do anything more about it than I can when they call me ...”

“I know,” Min interrupted. “Don’t say it.”

Elayne nodded. “They captured her before me. She was crying because she’s beginning to stop fighting against it, because she cannot take being punished anymore. She was crying because she wants to take her own life, and she cannot even do that without permission. I ... I fear that will be me soon.”

Min shifted uneasily, smoothing her dress with suddenly nervous hands. “Elayne, you don’t want to ... Elayne, you must not think of harming yourself. I will get you out somehow. I will!”

“I am not going to kill myself,” Elayne sighed. “Even if I could.  _ Damane _ are not permitted to touch a weapon. If I tried to pick up a knife my hand would cramp up so badly I wouldn’t be able to lift anything. Even our meat is cut for us. Their meat, I mean ... Our meat, Light help me. No  _ damane _ is ever left alone where she might jump from a height—that window is nailed shut—or throw herself in a river.”

“Well, that’s a good thing. I mean ... Oh, I don’t know what I mean. If you could jump in a river, you might escape.”

Elayne went on dully, as if the Min had not spoken. “They are training me, Min. The  _ sul’dam _ and the  _ a’dam _ are training me. I cannot touch anything I even think of as a weapon. A few weeks ago I considered hitting Renna over the head with that pitcher, and I could not pour wash water for three days. Once I’d thought of it that way, I not only had to stop thinking about hitting her with it, I had to convince myself I would never, under any circumstances, hit her with it before I could touch it again. She knew what had happened, told me what I had to do, and would not let me wash anywhere except with that pitcher and bowl. You are lucky it happened between your visiting days. Renna made sure I spent those days sweating from the time I woke to the time I fell asleep, exhausted. I am trying to fight them, but they are training me as surely as they’re training Pura.” She clapped a hand to her mouth, moaning through her teeth. “Her name is Ryma. I have to remember her name, not the name they’ve put on her. She is Ryma, and she is an Aes Sedai of the Yellow Ajah. I don’t know the other Sister’s name, the Cairhienin Blue, she won’t speak to anyone, but she has a name, too, and not the one these Seanchan have given her. Will you remember us, Min? Please?”

“Stop it!” Min snapped. “You stop it right this instant!” Seeing Elayne so close to breaking horrified her, but she didn’t know what she could do to help. All she had were her useless viewings. Or perhaps not completely useless. “If you get shipped off to Seanchan, I’ll be right there with you. But I don’t think you will. You know I’ve read you, Elayne. I don’t understand most of it—I almost never do—but I see things I am sure link you to Rand, and Andor. How can any of that happen if the Seanchan take you off across the ocean? My viewings always come true. Trust me on that, and don’t give up.”

Elayne looked at her with tears in her eyes. “Maybe they’re going to conquer the whole world, Min. Your viewings could still come to pass if they conquered Andor.”

That was disturbingly accurate, but Min didn’t want to hear it. “You ninny-headed goose!” She seized Elayne by the shoulders, so mad at the whole horrible situation that she was ready to shake her, as though that would solve anything. The impulse passed swiftly. Elayne just looked back at her, sad and powerless.

Min stared at her, searching her big, blue eyes for signs of the spirited, sheltered and inquisitive girl she had met in Tar Valon. There were hints of her old self still, but despair was starting to consume everything. She kissed her.

It was not a gentle kiss. For want of anything else that could help she sought to force life and passion and spirit back into her friend by way of her body. She stuck her tongue in Elayne’s mouth and crushed the girl’s thin shoulders in her arms as she bore her down onto the bed.

Elayne was pliant in Min’s embrace. She lay on her back with her arms around her lover, kissing her softly. She did nothing when Min bunched her grey dress around her waist and pulled down her drab underwear to reveal the bright gold that was hidden beneath. Exposed and helpless, collared like pet dog, Elayne lay before Min and waited to be taken.

_ No _ , Min thought.  _ Not like this _ .

She leaned in and kissed her tenderly. “I love you, Elayne Trakand, Daughter-Heir of Andor and Aes Sedai in training,” she whispered. “I would do anything for you. I will find a way to free you, or die trying. I promise.”

Min scootched down the bed until her face was close to Elayne’s sex, then took her by the waist and urged her to lift her hips. After a brief, confused pause Elayne complied. Min lay on her back and guided Elayne until she was crouching above her. Only the strength of Elayne’s legs and her innate courtesy was preventing her from sitting on Min’s face. Her sex hovered mere inches away from the other girl’s lips.

“What are you doing, Min?” she asked breathlessly.

“Servicing my Queen,” Min answered, looking her straight in the eye. She held her gaze as she ran her tongue up and down Elayne’s slit and made her gasp.

Elayne clamped a hand over her mouth, fearful of drawing attention from her jailors. With her other hand she pulled the folds of her dress back out of the way, the better to see Min’s eyes looking up at her. Min hoped her adoration showed in them, Elayne needed to see that, she thought, needed to know how much Min worshipped her.

She focused on Elayne’s beautiful face and bright blue eyes, ignoring, as best she could, the silvery collar and leash that ran from her neck to the bracelet resting on its peg on the wall.

Elayne’s free hand soon came to rest on Min’s beribboned head, urging her on as she kissed and licked at the folds of her sex. Min thrust her tongue inside as far as she could and brought a whimper from Elayne’s lips. The Daughter-Heir forgot her courtesy and began to gyrate her hips, slathering her juices all over Min’s cheeks as she rode her face.

Throughout it all, Min and Elayne maintained eye contact. Only when Min discovered the engorged bud at the hood of her lover’s sex and began to suck upon it insistently did Elayne stop staring down at her. She squeezed her eyes shut and tangled both hands in Min’s hair as she bucked against her mouth. It wasn’t very comfortable for Min, and it became hard to breathe when Elayne clamped her thighs around Min’s face and let her juices flow all over the other girl’s face, but she didn’t mind. She trusted Elayne not to harm her, and even if that had not been the case she could think of far worse ways to die. Elayne gasped and shuddered as she rode out the waves of her orgasm. There was colour in her cheeks for the first time in weeks.

“I’m sorry,” Elayne said breathlessly, once she had come back to her senses. She clambered off Min’s face. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

Min put on her cheeriest smile. Her nose hurt a little but she doubted it was broken, and even if it had been Elayne would not need to know about it. “I’m great. I’ve missed seeing you like that. So beautifully alive.”

Elayne blushed and lowered her eyes. But she essayed a tentative smile of her own, a cheeky smile that brought her long-missing dimples back for a visit. It eased Min’s heart to see.

Elayne sat on the bed, her dress falling back down around her legs. She reached over to tug at Min’s skirts but, despite her arousal, Min caught her hands and held them in a gentle but firm grip. “You don’t need to do that. Just pleasing you is all the pleasure I need today. I’ll take a cuddle though, if you have one to spare.”

She had. They sat together on the narrow bed, Elayne’s head resting on Min’s shoulder.  _ I won’t let them break you _ , Min promised her silently.  _ No matter what, I will find a way out for us _ .

“Thank you, Min,” Elayne whispered. “For everything.” She wrapped her arms around Min’s waist and gave her a little squeeze.

As Min opened her mouth to reply the door swung open, and Renna stepped in.

Elayne jumped to her feet and bowed sharply, as did Min. The tiny room was crowded for bowing, but Seanchan insisted on protocol before comfort and had little tolerance for anyone who did not adhere to their ways.

“Your visiting day, is it?” Renna said. “I had forgotten. Well, there is training to be done even on visiting days. You will go now, Min. Your visiting day with Tuli is ended.” Her gaze came to rest on the bed and a frown creased her brow.

Min hesitated only long enough for one anguished look at Elayne before leaving. Nothing she could say or do would do anything except make matters worse.

Outside in the low-ceilinged hallway Min tidied herself up and tried to gather her thoughts. Even if she could find a way to remove the  _ a’dam _ , she would still need to find a way out of Falmerden. The nation was cut in two at the moment, with half under Seanchan control and the other half still loyal to their king and the daughter he spoke for. If they rode inland they would have to avoid the Seanchan patrols as they made their way to the loyalist forces. Min was no woodswoman, and Elayne certainly wasn’t. She remembered the Theren folk who had visited Baerlon teasing each other about their tracking skills.  _ If Rand were here ... _ But he wasn’t. She would have to do it herself, somehow. There would be patrols on the sea as well, but fewer. If only she could find a ship that was willing to risk Seanchan-controlled waters, one that was willing to offer passage to two girls without a copper to their names. Or better yet, one that had permission to sail from the High Lord, then patrols wouldn’t be a problem. As well ask for a ship that could fly.

She was on the stairs when Renna caught up to her.

“You,” said the Seanchan woman. Somehow her tone turned the simple word into an insult. “Remain where you are.”

Min looked up at her. For a brief moment a glittering snake seemed to coil around Renna’s neck, its fangs bared to strike. But then it withdrew. Min felt a flash of disappointment. Renna’s life would be threatened soon, but she would survive the attack. “What’s wrong?” she asked the  _ sul’dam _ , trying not to let her dislike of the woman show.

“You are,” Renna said. “Disgustingly so. Did you think I would not notice the smell? The discarded undergarments?” She shook her head, her lips twisting as though she was about to be sick. “You hear tales sometimes, even in Seanchan, but you try not to believe them. To think that anyone would do such a thing with a  _ damane _ ! Must I warn the stablemasters to keep an eye out for you as well? Will they find you some night in the stalls on your hands and knees as a  _ torm _ breeds you like the animal you are?” Min gaped at the tirade of abuse, heart racing, torn between shock and offense. “I would say you were  _ sei’mosiev _ but I doubt you are even capable of understanding the concept. Had your parents any honour they would strip you of your name. But I am not your mother and I must limit myself to this: your visits with Tuli are at an end, degenerate. If you attempt to see her again I will see that Captain Elbar gets the satisfaction he asked for when we first met. Get out.” That last she delivered with a broad sneer, looking down at Min from the top of the stairs. She knew there was no point in arguing with the  _ sul’dam _ , so she left the  _ damane _ compound in a daze.

Relatively few people walked the streets this close to where the  _ damane _ were housed, even Seanchan ones. The locals shunned the broad square as much as they could, for it was there that their Queen had died her horrible, slow death. Even farther down the hill the streets were quiet. The Seanchan had not tried to keep the population of Falme prisoner, and once the people began to realise that they could leave unmolested many had packed up their most prized possessions and moved inland “to visit relatives”. Or to join up with their countrymen and fight. Aside from a lone man trying to interest two Seanchan soldiers in buying the picture he would draw of them with his coloured chalks, everyone local tried to step along quickly without actually appearing to run. A pair of  _ sul’dam _ strolled by,  _ damane _ trailing behind with eyes down, like well-trained animals; the Seanchan women were talking about how many more  _ marath’damane _ they expected to find before they sailed.

_ No more visits _ . She would have to find a way to open the  _ a’dam _ , find a means of smuggling Elayne out of Falme, and then somehow break into the  _ damane _ compound to get her. She dug her nails into her palms as she made her way to the docks.  _ There has to be a way! _

The sloping street became more crowded the further down she went. Street peddlers rubbed elbows with merchants who had brought wagons in from the inland villages and would not go out again until winter had come and gone, hawkers with their trays called to the passersby, Falmerans in embroidered cloaks brushed past farm families in heavy fleece coats. Many people had fled here from villages further from the coast. Min saw no point to it—they had leaped from the possibility of a visit from the Seanchan to the certainty of Seanchan all around them—but she had heard what the Seanchan did when they first came to a village, and she could not blame the villagers too much for fearing another appearance. Everyone bowed when a Seanchan walked past or a curtained palanquin was carried by up the steep street. Min bowed, too, though it made her feel sick.

She hadn’t visited the docks once since she was captured. She had been reluctant to spend time farther from Elayne than was necessary; there was always the fear that she would go for her allowed visit and find Elayne gone. That didn’t seem very rational, now that she thought about it. They were, and always had been, going to take Elayne away regardless of how close Min stayed. Unless she found a way to stop them.

The smell of salt and pitch grew heavy in the air, and gulls cried, wheeling overhead. Sailors appeared in the throng, many still barefoot despite the cold. They were well into Nesan now, the last month of autumn, and winter’s chill had already begun. Seanchan vessels occupied most of the docks, but a few Valgardan vessels could still be seen. Min examined them carefully and felt a surge of hope when she recognised one. The  _ Spray _ had seemed a mighty vessel when it had carried her to Tar Valon, but it was dwarfed by the Seanchan ships it was tied up between.

She hurried towards the gangplank that led onto  _ Spray _ ’s deck. It was the best fortune she’d had in ages. Domon had seemed a nice man, perhaps she might still have a chance to save Elayne if she begged him to let them stow away on his ship when it next sailed.

A pair of sailors sat at the top of the ramp. Their beards were uncombed and they were bleary eyed from what looked like an excess of cheap drink. The smell that wafted from them as she passed confirmed her suspicions. Neither man challenged her boarding, though one did make a half-hearted effort to pinch her bottom.

She dodged with the nimbleness of a veteran barmaid. “I’d like to speak to your captain,” she said firmly. “Is he on board?”

The second sailor, the one who hadn’t tried to pinch her, rose from his stupor and blinked his bloodshot eyes at her. “The captain? He be in his cabin.” He licked his lips as he looked her up and down rudely. “Did make himself a friend eh? Domon no can afford to pay an honest sailor for the work he did do, but he can get himself a fancy girl. Bloody typical.” He turned his sour face away, hawked up and spat overboard.

As she made her way to the captain’s cabin Min saw ample signs of disrepair and dissolution. She got the impression that  _ Spray _ had been moored in Falme for quite some time. She hoped that meant the captain would be as eager to leave as she was.

She knew from past visits that Captain Domon had a tidy cabin in the stern, reached by climbing down a short ladder, where everything gave the impression of being in its proper place, right down to the coats and cloaks hanging from pegs on the back of the door. The cabin stretched the width of the ship, with a broad bed built against one side and a heavy table built out from the other. There was only one chair, with a high back and sturdy arms, but there were several benches and chests that were the only other furnishings.

The cabin looked much as she remembered it, as much as she could see at least, when Domon answered the tap on his door. The captain himself seemed grimmer than she recalled, but just as bear-like. He sounded like a bear, too, when he brushed a hand across his odd beard and growled, “What be this now? Did the High Lord Turak send you to fetch me, girl?”

“No, Captain Domon. I was hoping you could help me actually.”

Domon frowned and peered at her more closely. “Fortune prick me. It do be young Min. How in the name of the Light do you be here?” He looked her up and down as well, though in a manner nowhere near as crass as his sailor had. “That dress do look Seanchan to me. Do you be working for them now?”

“Never!” Min said fiercely, but she still glanced over her shoulder to check if anyone was near enough to hear her words.

Domon grunted. “Best come in, girl. There be eyes and ears all over these docks.”

Min followed him into the cabin and closed the door behind them.

Domon sank into his chair with a sigh. She couldn’t help but notice that several of his prized antiques had gone missing since she had last been here. An image flashed into being above Domon’s left shoulder, an image of him on his knees offering a covered parcel to another man as though it were a gift fit for a king; an aura of green and gold surrounded him. She did not know what the viewing meant and it winked out as quickly as it had come. She perched on one of the benches and tried to hide her nervousness.

“So. You did say you wanted my help, girl. With what?”

Briefly, Min wondered if she should try to hide her intentions. If the captain had gone over to the Seanchan then telling him the truth might cost her her life. But she dismissed that worry and decided on honesty. “I want passage out of Falme, for me and for a friend of mine. I don’t really mind where we go, just so long as it’s somewhere the Seanchan don’t rule. Are you going to be sailing soon?”

“I would sail today, if I could,” Domon said glumly. “Every two or three days that Turak do send for me to tell him tales of the old things I have seen. Do I look a gleeman to you? I did think I could spin a tale or two and be on my way, but he did keep me here four months. Now I think he do grow bored with my tales, and when I no entertain him any longer, I think it be an even wager whether he do let me go or have my head cut off. The man do look soft, but he be as hard as iron, and as coldhearted. Four months with never a sale made. All my profits from this trip do go to paying my sailor’s wages. Wages I do have to pay to sailors who no be sailing. This High Lord do ruin me, and no care a whit for it so long as I do tell him stories of the places I’ve been.”

“Can your ship avoid the Seanchan?” Min asked. “If Turak doesn’t let you go, I mean.”

“Fortune prick me, could I make it out of the harbour without a  _ damane _ rips  _ Spray _ to splinters, I can. If I do no let a Seanchan ship with a  _ damane _ come too close once I do make the sea. There be shoal waters all along this coast, and  _ Spray _ do have a shallow draft. I can take her into waters those lumbering Seanchan hulks can no risk. They must be wary of the winds close inshore this time of year. But it no matter. These  _ damane _ would sink me before I got beyond the harbour mouth. Unless they be too busy fighting the Falmeran army but it be reluctant to come against them. And even if they did my crew be like to mutiny as soon as I be out of sight of the shore. I can no afford to pay them this week, or in the weeks to come. Not unless you or your friend do have a hefty purse. I will have to charge a hefty fee for passage this time, girl. Much more than I normally would, more than be fair for an honest captain to ask. But I do no have a choice. How much coin do you have?”

Min flushed in shame. “I don’t have any coin at the moment. But if you could just get us out of here my friend and I will see that you are paid a fortune for your trouble. I swear it.” She wondered if she should tell him that Elayne was the Daughter-Heir of Andor and could pay any fee he might ask ten times over. But she decided not. A woman in Elayne’s position likely had enemies even she wasn’t aware of, people who would target her just for being born her mother’s daughter. She didn’t want to expose her to any more danger than she was already in.

Domon sighed. “So you’ve no money to pay your passage. I’d no let my own brother sail with me if he could no pay his passage. Even if I were not near beggared.”

“Maybe I could steal ...” Min cleared her throat. “Never mind. If the  _ damane _ were distracted enough for you sail out of Seanchan territory, how much would you need to take me and another girl with you?”

Domon stroked his beard and frowned at the walls of his cabin. “I’d need to pay my crew, and I’d need to buy cargo in the next port in order to keep being able to pay them.” He was silent for a moment as he did the sums in his head. “Fifty crowns, Andoran weight, or the equivalent in other coinage. That should be enough to cover it.”

Min’s jaw dropped. She’d never had that much money in her life. “I ... don’t know where I would get that much ...”

Domon shifted in his chair uncomfortably. “You be a pretty girl. Do you no have any ... friend that might loan you the money?”

Min flushed. “No,” she said firmly.

The captain sighed once again. He avoided meeting her eye. “Well if there be no coin to purchase a new cargo ... mayhap I could take a loan from a bank in Orlay or Bandar Eban. Assuming I could reach them without having my throat cut and being tossed overboard. There ah, there be one way I could think of. If someone could keep my crew’s tempers in check, could distract them and give them a way to, ah ... ease their frustrations until I could afford to pay them ...”

Min felt cold. She had a terrible feeling that she already knew what he was implying, but she had to ask. “How could they be distracted? And by who?” Her voice came out sounding higher-pitched than usual.

Domon still avoided her eye. “I think you do know what I mean, girl. I do be sorry, but unless you have coin to pay your way it be the only thing I can think of that might get us both out of this mess. You be a pretty thing, especially now that you no dress like a boy. I’m sure the men would be happy to have a go with you when they be no on duty.”

Min paled. It was exactly as she had feared.  _ The sailors. All the sailors. He wants me to let them ... _ “No!” she gasped. “I can’t. I won’t!”

Domon shook his head regretfully. “Well, if it be no, it be no. But Bayle Domon no give free passage, not to his own mother. If you do change your mind, I be likely to still be here, waiting for that Light-blasted Lord to free me.”

It was a dismissal. Min rose from the bench on suddenly shaky legs. The sudden hope she had felt on sighting the  _ Spray _ evaporated, leaving only the roughest truth behind. There was no way out. No way she could save Elayne. Not unless an army appeared to attack Falme and draw the  _ damane _ out. Not unless she could figure out how to unlock the  _ a’dam _ . And not unless she was willing to allow dozens of strange men to use her however they pleased.

She stopped at the door to the captain’s cabin, her back to Domon and tears in her eyes. “If ... if an army did come, and I brought my friend here ... Would you promise me her safety? I need to know that nothing bad would happen to her, not from the Seanchan or anyone else.”

“She could stay in the cabin with me. I do promise not to touch her, or allow anyone else to. But if the men were to mutiny ... my promises would no be worth much.” Domon sounded ashamed.

Min closed her eyes, causing her tears to leak down her cheeks.  _ So long as Elayne is safe, so long as she is spared having to live her life as a  _ damane _ ... _ “If the High Lord gives you permission to leave, please send someone to tell me. And if an army comes, please wait as long as you can before sailing. I ... I’ll do whatever I can to ... to help ...” She lost her voice and her nerve and fled the cabin, pulling the door shut behind her.

Outside, she scrubbed the tears from her cheeks with the sleeve of her Seanchan dress. She felt utterly wretched even at the thought of what was being asked of her. She could not imagine actually doing it. But she would have to if she wanted to save Elayne.

Composing herself as best she could, Min made her way back to the gangplank. She was suddenly acutely aware of the crew of the  _ Spray _ . Rough-faced and unwashed men with hard muscles and sullen expressions, they watched her as she walked past and their eyes flickered all over her body. She felt horribly exposed and found herself fighting the urge to cringe away. When she reached the gangplank she all but ran down it to the solid footing of the docks.

Min drew a shaky breath. Horrible as it was to contemplate letting those men use her like that, what Elayne was going through was even worse. And at least Min would have the hope that it would end in escape, and that she would have accomplished something by doing it. All Elayne, or any  _ damane _ , had was the promise of a lifetime of slavery and degradation.

_ I’ll do it. I’ll do it if I have to, but oh Light I wish there was another way _ . She didn’t know how she would be able to look at herself in the mirror afterwards though. Or what Elayne and Rand would think of her if they ever found out ...


	29. Time Runs Out

CHAPTER 57: Time Runs Out

“Almost five months!” Fain snarled. “Even if the coward would not dare the Ways, he should be here by now!” Half of summer and almost the entirety of autumn he had waited, whispering his poison among the Seanchan to distract himself, always hoping that tomorrow would be the day al’Thor came to Falme. But the boy had not shown. It would almost have been enough to drive him mad, if he was not already.

“I warned him,” he hissed softly. “I told him what I would do if he ignored me.” Padan Fain was not a man of his word. He cared as little for honour as he did for sanity. But he hated to be balked or looked down on. He’d had a lifetime of that. Al’Thor would pay for disregarding him, and his warning. Al’Thor and so many others.

The stablehands were looking at him oddly. He had momentarily forgotten where he was in his fury and said aloud what he should, perhaps, have not. It did not matter. He’d just have to add a few more bodies to the pile.

His discovery of a Friend of the Dark among the Seanchan nobility, and such a highly ranked one at that, had seemed a welcome thing at first. But the more he learned the more disquieted he grew. He had thought to use the Seanchan as his weapon against the world—after he’d used them to kill al’Thor, of course—but from what he had gleaned from Suroth it seemed Ba’alzamon favoured the Seanchan and was taking steps to ensure their invasion was a success. Anything Ba’alzamon favoured was something Fain wanted to destroy. He hated that one almost as much, perhaps even more, than he hated al’Thor. He still cringed to remember the things that had been done to him at Shayol Ghul.

Turak and the younger lady, Morsa, were not among the Friends, and so needed to be handled more carefully than Suroth. Turak had proven particularly aggravating. He would have thought a man who exuded the arrogance that that one did would have been more amenable to their powers of persuasion, but when Fain whispered of the glory he might win, Turak only prated of his loyalty to his Empress. It had been one more reason for Fain to fume. The girl was cut from the same cloth, but perhaps even more irritating. She put her nose in the air whenever Fain entered the room, no matter how well he dressed or how many servants he surrounded himself with. He could hardly whisper poison in her ear if she would not even allow him to speak to her.  _ I’d do more than whisper if I could. I’d gouge out her arrogant eyes and fuck the sockets _ . He did not dare though. The Seanchan’s wrath would be more than he could handle. For now.

Movement at the entrance to the stable caught his attention and brought a smile to his lips. If he did not dare strike at the nobles, and could not reach al’Thor, Aybara or Cauthon, there was at least one enemy he could get his hands on. Huan cast a disdainful glance around as he entered the stables. Someone unfamiliar with the Seanchan might almost have mistaken him for one of their nobles with his robe and ridiculous haircut, especially when he looked down his nose at the workers like that.  _ Such a proud slave you are _ , Fain thought. “Welcome, my friend,” Fain said.

Huan eyed him with even more disdain than he had the two stablemen. “The servant you were loaned claimed you had found another prize for the High Lord. One even greater than the last you brought. A bold claim. If he was lying and wasting the High Lord’s time he may well lose his tongue.” His expression made it plain he would like to see Fain’s tongue join the wretched servant’s on the grill.

Fain smiled his most welcoming smile, and Huan recoiled slightly before recalling how very, very proud he was to be the High Lord’s property. He drew himself up and faced Fain proudly, and oh so stupidly.

“I found a prize greater than the Horn,” said Fain, not untruthfully. “A prize disdained by many fools.” He felt ... something ... drift through him. Something old, so very old.

“Huan. What is the meaning of this?” demanded the High Lord.

The servants,  _ so’jihn _ and stablehands alike fell to their knees and pressed their foreheads to the dirty floor.

“High Lord,” Huan said humbly. “I apologise profusely if I have displeased you. I was told this man who calls himself Fain had brought another gift for you and wished to make certain if was worthy of your attention before bringing him to you.”

“Do you think to steal from me, Huan? Did the sight of the Horn of Valere fill you with ambition? What a disappointment you are.” Bald-headed and smooth-cheeked, Turak had a face well-suited to contemptuous sneers.

“That my service could be so poor as to cause you to believe that of me fills me with shame, High Lord. I beg permission to take my own life in atonement,” said Huan. Fain thought he even meant it. He would have liked to have been a Seanchan lord. Owning people as completely as Turak owned this one would be most satisfying. And useful, too.

Fain had other ways to make people useful though. The two stablehands did not stop prostrating themselves when he stole up behind them. Even when he slipped a knife under each man’s throat and freed their life’s blood to soak into the dirt they had spent their lives grubbing in, neither did anything more than gargle.

If Huan heard the men die, he gave no sign. Still on his knees before the High Lord, he waited for his master’s judgement. Fain giggled softly as he walked towards him.

“I will grant you permission to die, dog. You may die in the dirt, at the hands of the serv ... of the man I have chosen to replace you. Padan Fain.” Turak gestured towards Fain as he made his proclamation.

Huan turned his head far enough to follow his master’s gesture and his eyes widened when he saw Fain approaching with his knives dripping red. Still the fool did not rise from his knees. Fain wondered if he would stay there even if Fain were to lift his robe and start buggering him. It was a fleetingly amusing thought, but he was not in the mood for such revenges.

Fain seized Huan by his lone braid and yanked his head back. The  _ so’jihn _ dug his nails into the dirt of the stable as though forcing himself not to fight back. Fain wondered whether the truth or the deception would hurt him more as he set his knife to the man’s throat. Since Huan was accepting his “master’s” judgement so readily, Fain decided on the truth. As he slit Huan’s throat, Fain leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Idiot, fool, traitor. You failed as a servant and as a bodyguard. Your master dies next.” He felt the mist leave him and the illusion of the High Lord Turak shimmered out of existence. Huan’s eyes went very wide, he stared at the empty space where his master had never been and he tried to speak but nothing came out save for a stream of red blood. He pitched forward onto the ground, dead.

Fain rubbed his hands together. It had been a swifter death than the man deserved, but Fain had bigger fish to fry. These tricks he had learned from the man he met in Shadar Logoth were proving very useful. He wished he knew how al’Thor had evaded the little trap he had left in that village. He needed to know the limits of his new abilities if he was to use them against his enemies. And he had so many enemies.

“First the Theren. I told him I would scour that place clean of life if he did not come to me. And he did not come. So they will suffer in his place.” He would need new dupes though. Who, and how would he get them to attack a few worthless villages in the backwoods of Andor?

Fain thought it over as he saddled his horse. By the time he mounted up a smile was twisting his face.  _ Yes, that will do nicely. And how deliciously ironic _ .

He left without bothering to dispose of the bodies. By the time anyone suspected him of the murders he would be inside the Ways, beyond the reach of any fools who thought to bring him to “justice”. “It’s never over al’Thor,” he muttered, uncaring of the looks people gave him as he rode for the gates of Falme. “Wherever you ran to, I can find you. You will pay for what was done to me.”


	30. The Lines of If

CHAPTER 58: The Lines of If

The invader’s strange black and red armour was not enough to turn the edge of Tam’s power-wrought sword, though Rand had to throw all his strength behind the blow. He yanked the red-stained blade free of the dead man’s body and tried to make sense of the chaos around him. The Shienarans were mostly afoot now, their cavalry charge had smashed through the enemy lines when the battle began, but their horses had panicked and thrown their riders at the sight of those strange beasts the invaders commanded. Ragan lay where he had fallen, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle and his smiles stilled forever. He was not alone; the dead were piling up around him, Shienarans and invaders alike.

Rand engaged his next opponent aggressively, knowing the numbers were not in their favour. But the red-haired man countered the overhand blows of Striking the Spark with a perfectly executed Two Hares Leaping, driving Rand back in the process. The invader wore the same type of armour as his previous opponent, darker even than the already dark armour of the first group they had engaged. Rand wondered if the colour indicated rank of some kind, for the battle had started turning against his allies as soon as these new enemies joined the fray. His suspicions were strengthened when he spotted the heron etched on the blade that now thrust towards his face. He hastily switched to a high guard and sidestepped his opponent, The Kingfisher Circles the Pond.

_ He’s a blademaster. A real blademaster, not just a shepherd with a borrowed sword _ , Rand thought. He fed his fear to the flame and fought to maintain his focus.

Amidst the clamour of battle it was hard to distinguish one voice from another. Yet the sound of a girl’s scream of pain was hard to miss, especially when it was a voice you knew so well.

“Anna,” Rand gasped, face turning pale. The void failed and he glanced aside, searching for her. The dark-armoured invader saw his chance and took it.

The heron-marked sword slid easily through Rand’s fancy coat and the unarmoured chest beneath it. The pain drove all thought from Rand’s mind and his father’s sword fell from his suddenly-limp hands. Blood flooded his mouth, and as he sank to his knees on the battlefield and the world darkened around him, he heard a voice whispering in his skull, y _ ou lose again, Lews Therin _ .

Flicker.

The iron lock spun across the farmhouse floor, and Rand dropped the hot teakettle as a huge figure with ram’s horns on its head loomed in the doorway with the darkness of Winternight behind it.

“Run!” Tam shouted. His sword flashed, and the Trolloc toppled, but it grappled with Tam as it fell, pulling him down.

More crowded in at the door, black-mailed shapes with human faces distorted with muzzles and beaks and horns, oddly curved swords stabbing at Tam as he tried to struggle to his feet, spiked axes swinging, red blood on steel.

“Father!” Rand screamed. Clawing his belt knife from its sheath, he threw himself over the table to help his father, and screamed again when a mailed fist thudded into his stomach and a second clubbed the side of his head. His vision faded.

Piercing pain brought him back to awareness. He was sprawled across the kitchen table, his hands and feet were tied together, and something was stabbing him from behind. Harsh voices in a language he did not know sounded from all around and Tam was staring up at him. Tam’s head at least, blank-eyed and rolling across the soiled floor. The rest of him was gone and a heavy pot was bubbling over their fire. The stabbing pain repeated half a dozen times before Rand’s sluggish mind could comprehend what was happening.

“Stop!” he cried. His rapist ignored him, preferring to shove its giant cock into his ass again and again, hard brutal thrusts that seemed as much about inflicting pain as they were about seeking pleasure.

The other Trollocs paid more heed to Rand’s cries. They shouted at him in their guttural language and one stepped forward from the pack, tossing aside a bloody bone as it did so, a bone that had a tragically familiar hand attached to it. Tears leaked from Rand’s horror-widened eyes.

The goat-headed Trolloc saw his tears and amusement flared in its too-human eyes. It reached into its dirty breeches and fished out a heavy pink shaft that tapered off at its tufted end. Rand had little time to wonder at how wrong the thing looked. The Trolloc seized him by his hair and yanked his head back painfully. When he gasped in pain, it shoved its ugly member into his open mouth. The foul taste made him gag which caused the Trolloc to chuckle in pleasure. The Trolloc held Rand’s head in place as it fucked his mouth over and over. The long hair on the end of its cock tickled the back of his throat and he gagged again.

The one that had been busy raping his ass howled like a wolf and Rand felt warm liquid flood his insides. It pulled itself out of him with a loud pop and staggered away. No sooner had it taken two steps than another, beaked like a chicken but furred like a bear was pulling its crooked thing out and moving around to take its place behind Rand.

He couldn’t take this horror any more. Yelling internally, Rand clamped his jaws down on the monstrous cock in his mouth, trying to bite it off and hoping that the beast would bleed to death if he managed to. The thing roared in pain and fury and reached down to dig its claws into the sides of his neck, tearing the flesh there as easily as a wolf might tear the throat from a lamb.

Blood bubbled up into his mouth, and flooded out over the table. As he died, a voice whispered inside his head,  _ you lose again, Lews Therin _ .

Flicker.

Rand struggled to hold the symbol, dimly aware of Verin’s voice. “... is not ...” The Power flooded.

Flicker.

Rand was happy after he married Egwene, and tried to not let the moods take him, the times when he thought there should have been something more, something different. News of the world outside came into the Theren with peddlers, and merchants come to buy wool and tabac, always news of fresh troubles, of wars and false Dragons everywhere. There was a year when neither merchants nor peddlers came, and when they returned the next they brought word that Artur Hawkwing’s armies had come back, or their descendants, at least. The old nations were broken, it was said, and the world’s new masters, who used chained Aes Sedai in their battles, had torn down the White Tower and salted the ground where Tar Valon had stood. There were no more Aes Sedai.

It all made little difference in the Theren. Crops still had to be planted, sheep sheared, lambs tended. Tam had grandsons and granddaughters to dandle on his knee before he was laid to rest beside his wife, and the old farmhouse grew new rooms. Egwene became Wisdom, and most thought she was even better than the old Wisdom, Nynaeve al’Meara, had been. It was as well she was, for her cures that worked so miraculously on others were only just able to keep Rand alive from the sickness that constantly seemed to threaten him. His moods grew worse, blacker, and he raged that this was not what was meant to be. Egwene grew frightened when the moods were on him, for strange things sometimes happened when he was at his bleakest—lightning storms she had not heard listening to the wind, wildfires in the forest—but she loved him and cared for him and kept him sane, though some muttered that Rand al’Thor was crazy and dangerous.

When she died, he sat alone for long hours by her grave, tears soaking his grey-flecked beard. His sickness came back, and he wasted; he lost the last two fingers on his right hand and one on his left, his ears looked like scars, and men muttered that he smelled of decay. His blackness deepened.

Yet when the dire news came, none refused to accept him at their side. Trollocs and Fades and things undreamed of had burst out of the Blight, and the world’s new masters were being thrown back, for all the powers they wielded. So Rand took up the bow he had just fingers enough left to shoot and limped with those who marched north to the River Taren, men from every village, farm, and corner of the Theren, with their bows, and axes, and boarspears, and swords that had lain rusting in attics. Rand wore a sword, too, with a heron on the blade, that he had found after Tam died, though he knew nothing of how to use it. Women came, too, shouldering what weapons they could find, marching alongside the men. Some laughed, saying that they had the strange feeling they had done this before.

And at the Taren the people of the Theren met the invaders, endless ranks of Trollocs led by nightmare Fades beneath a dead black banner that seemed to eat the light. Rand saw that banner and thought the madness had taken him again, for it seemed that this was what he had been born for, to fight that banner. He sent every arrow at it, straight as his skill and the void would serve, never worrying about the Trollocs forcing their way across the river, or the men and women dying to either side of him. It was one of those Trollocs that ran him through, before it loped howling for blood deeper into the Theren. And as he lay on the bank of the Taren, watching the sky seem to grow dark at noon, breath coming ever slower, he heard a voice say,  _ you lose again, Lews Therin _ .

Flicker.

Raye didn’t really want to marry the Mayor’s handsome young son Edwin. But their fathers had arranged the match without bothering to ask her, as had been customary in the Theren for as long as anyone could remember. A custom dating, perhaps, all the way back to the end of the Age of Legends, when Louise Therin Telachol had helped the Dark One to taint the female half of the One Power and used it to start the Breaking of the World. The men often said that was just the sort of thing you could expect to happen if you let a woman run things.

Edwin certainly shared that opinion. He had welcomed the match with Raye at first. She was the only girl in the Theren with hair the colour of blood and many a man had complimented her looks; and besides, she had no brothers to inherit her father’s lands so they would belong to whoever married her, once Tam passed on.

He had enjoyed himself on their wedding night, too, playing with her large, pale breasts as he pumped in and out of her sex. She had grown to enjoy the unfamiliar sensation, too, after a while.

But the enjoyment was short-lived.

Raye had a stubborn streak to her, no matter how mild-mannered and tractable she might have appeared to Edwin when they were younger. She knew the legends of Louise Therin Kinslayer, but didn’t see why one woman’s crimes should be used to condemn all women. She loved the Theren, but she hated spending her days washing and cooking and cleaning Edwin’s house. She hated being expected to spread her legs every time he was bored. And she hated the way Edwin spoke to her. Perhaps he knew how little she liked playing her “proper” role and took it as his civic duty to keep her in her place, or perhaps he resented her for not being happy in their marriage. Or simply for being taller than him. Whatever his reasons, he rarely let a chance slip by without reminding her of how inferior women in general, and she in particular, were.

“My father always told me the best way to deal with a woman was to learn to ride a mule. He said they have equal brains most of the time. Sometimes the mule is smarter,” he would snort, with an exasperated shake of his head, when she expressed an interest in anything more strenuous than housework.

Once, when she defied him and bought some books on herbalism from a visiting peddler, Edwin sighed and took on an indulgent look. “Stopping a woman from what she wants to do is like taking a sweet from a child,” he said, acting as though he had known her intentions all along. “Sometimes you have to do it, but sometimes it just isn’t worth the trouble.”

After a few years of marriage she began hearing his voice in her head even when she was off visiting with her friends Petunia and Matti. Always the voice insulted, belittled and mocked her, and no matter how she tried she could not make it be silent.

When her eye started twitching uncontrollably, Edwin began to have difficulty looking at her.

It was on a night not long after that she decided to end it. She was on her hands and knees on the bed as Edwin held her by her curvaceous hips and pounded away. She felt no pleasure in their copulation any more. With each thrust the voice in her head, his voice, repeated an old insult.

“You’re just a woman. Who do you think you are? Mule-head. Don’t concern yourself with men’s business, dear, you’ll give yourself a headache.”

The poison she brewed worked well. Her book had been worth that much, whatever he said. When his friends missed him and came to ask where he was, Raye did not try to hide her actions.

On the day that Mayor Brandelwyn al’Vere ordered her to be hanged, a wild-eyed man stumbled into Emond’s Field ranting about monsters chasing him and claiming the Borderlands had been overrun. No-one paid him much heed, they were too busy gossiping about the mad murderess in their midst and telling of how they’d always known there was something strange about her.

When Dan Congar kicked the stool out from under her and the noose tightened around her soft neck, Raye heard another voice in her head, a different one but somehow every bit as loathsome.  _ You lose again, Louise Therin _ .

Flicker.

Battle raged around him, deep in the Hills of Absher. Rand fought with desperate, but inexperienced fury. They all did, save for Moiraine and Lan.

Amidst the chaos a space remained around the Aes Sedai, whenever a Trolloc ventured too near, fires roared. The Trollocs howls of rage and fury turned to fear and pain as they died. Above roar and howl crashed the tolling of the Warder’s sword against the Myrddraal’s; the air flared blue around them, flared again. Again.

A hook caught Rand’s shoulder from behind, digging through his coat and into the flesh beneath, jerking him backwards. He roared with pain and clutched the pommel of his saddle to keep his seat. Cloud twisted, shrieking. Rand hung on desperately but he could feel himself slipping, inch by inch, dragged backwards by the hook. He saw Perrin, half out of his saddle, struggling to wrest his axe away from three Trollocs. They had him by one arm and both legs. A hard yank on the hook pulled Rand from Cloud’s back and then he saw nothing but snarling, twisted, barely human bodies.

He hit the ground hard, breath whooshing out of his lungs. Gritting his teeth, he tried to rise again. Trollocs dashed in to seize Rand’s legs and arms. Panting, he stabbed one, but another soon took its place, and Rand’s sword was trapped within the first. A huge hand, covered in scales like a lizard’s, closed around Rand’s throat ... and the world began to fade away slowly.

He heard Moiraine scream, and through the tangled bodies of the Trollocs he saw Lan speared from behind. A dozen or more of the beasts had descended on him as he fought the Myrddraal. Moiraine’s cry of grief turned to a cry of pain as the Shadowspawn took advantage of her distraction to press their attack. They did not try to take her alive, as they seemed intent on doing with the Theren folk; a wicked curved sword struck the Aes Sedai’s head from her shoulders, stilling her screams and Rand’s hopes both.

The darkness descended upon him.

Pain woke him, his own and the pain of his friends.

The first thing he saw was Nynaeve, held aloft between two huge Trollocs like a piece of meat being roasted above a fire. Horribly, the spit she was held by was not made of wood, but of Shadowspawn cock. A goat-headed fiend held her braid aloft in both its hands as it pushed its cock deep into her throat, choking her. Tears flowed down the Wisdom’s cheeks as she struggled to get a breath. Her bare breasts dangled well above the ground, and her hands pressed against the Trolloc’s armoured knees, desperate to gain some purchase other than Trolloc cock on which to support her weight. At her other end a horse-faced thing held her dangling by the ankles, while it raped her with its horse-like cock. The thing was too huge to fit completely inside Nynaeve’s body, but what it had managed to force in there was enough to make blood drip steadily down to the soiled ground.

Mat and Perrin were on their knees, hogtied and facing each other. The huge Trollocs raping their asses brayed with inhuman laughter, and seemed to enjoy forcing the two boys to watch each other being violated as much as they were enjoying their tight holes.

He didn’t think they were the first to have had a go on them. Naked and half-naked Trolloc bodies could be seen all around the camp. Many were feasting at the cookpots, where pieces of Moiraine, Lan and Thom could still be seen, waiting to be cooked.

Horror forced a prayer of denial from Rand’s lips, and his Trolloc captors turned their attention his way. They laughed as they advanced on him, rubbing their twisted, inhuman members in clawlike hands, readying themselves for what Rand knew was coming. Instinctively, he tried to get away, but he was tied as securely as Mat and Perrin were, and his kicking and thrashing accomplished nothing.

A scream of pain distracted him momentarily. He hadn’t even noticed that Anna was there, so huge was the Trolloc that lay atop her. It was covered in striped fur, lighter at the chest and stomach, darker elsewhere. Its vaguely human body shape was belied by the snout of its face, and the long tusks that stabbed down from its jaw. It pounded its cock mercilessly into the little girl pinned beneath its bulk, uncaring of her pain or her struggles.

The others were equally as dismissive of Egwene’s pain. They crowded around her, some with cocks lodged in her ass, pussy, mouth, or hands, others using their own hands to pleasure themselves as they watched the show. Her body and face were already covered in a thick coating of white slime.

As the Trollocs seized Rand by the ankles and flipped him over he sent up a fervent prayer to the Light, in vain hope of deliverance. He had to wait a long time before his prayer was answered, and when it finally was, it was accompanied by a mocking whisper.  _ You lose again, Lews Therin _ .

Flicker.

The arrow-and-circle contorted into parallel wavy lines, and he fought it back again. Verin’s voice. “... right. Something ...”

The Power raged.

Flicker.

Tam tried to console Rand when Nynaeve died just a week before their wedding. It had been such a stupid accident, a runaway horse kicking out at the worst possible moment. Bitter grief strangled his throat every time he thought of it, and he thought of it every day he lingered in the Theren. He recalled how she had wept on his shoulder after failing to save Egwene. He himself had sat outside Egwene’s house while she died, and there seemed to be nowhere in Emond’s Field that you could not hear her screaming. No-one, not even Nynaeve knew what illness had struck her.

Comfort shared had soon grown into something more. Something that some considered improper. Nynaeve had lost her position as village Wisdom when the Women’s Circle discovered their relationship, and Rand regretted that injustice deeply, but he told himself he would have made her happy even so, if only the Wheel had been kind enough to let them wed.

But it had not been so kind and he knew he could not stay. Tam gave him a sword with a heron-mark blade, and though he explained little of how a shepherd in the Theren had come by such a thing, he taught Rand how to use it. On the day Rand left, Tam gave him a letter he said might get Rand taken into the army of Illian, and hugged him, and said, “I’ve never had another son, or wanted another. Come back with a wife like I did, if you can, boy, but come back in any case.”

Rand had his money stolen in Baerlon, though, and his letter of introduction, and almost his sword, and he met a woman called Min who told him such crazy things about himself that he finally left the city to get away from her. Eventually his wanderings brought him to Caemlyn, and there his skill with the sword earned him a place in the Queen’s Guards. Sometimes he found himself looking at the Daughter-Heir, Elayne, and at such times he was filled with odd thoughts that this was not the way things were supposed to be, that there should be something more to his life. Elayne did not look at him, of course; she married a rich Tairen High Lord named Estean who had a face like a potato. She did not seem happy in her marriage though, and the female servants in the Palace took to avoiding her husband and his wandering hands as much as they could.

Rand did not speak to Elayne often. He was just a soldier, once a shepherd from a small village so far toward the eastern border that only lines on a map any longer truly connected it to Andor. Besides, he had a dark reputation, as a man of violent moods.

Some said he was mad, and in ordinary times perhaps not even his skill with the sword would have kept him in the Guard, but these were not ordinary times. False Dragons sprang up like weeds. Every time one was taken down, two more proclaimed themselves, or three, till every nation was torn by war. And Rand’s star rose, for he had learned the secret of his madness, a secret he knew he had to keep and did. He could channel. There were always places, times, in a battle when a little channelling, not big enough to be noticed in the confusion, could make luck. Sometimes it worked, this channelling, and sometimes not, but it worked often enough. He knew he was mad, and did not care. A wasting sickness came on him, and he did not care about that, either, and neither did anyone else, for word had come that Artur Hawkwing’s armies had returned to reclaim the land.

Rand led a thousand men when the Queen’s Guards crossed the Hills of Kintara to join with Pedron Niall’s army. He commanded the Guard when the shattered remnants retreated back along the Far Madding road, leaving Lord Bryne and the two princes dead on the field behind them. The length of Andor he fought and fell back, amid hordes of fleeing refugees, until at last he came to Caemlyn. Many of the people of Caemlyn had fled already, and many counselled the army to retreat further, but Elayne was Queen, now, and vowed she would not leave Caemlyn. She would not look at his ruined face, scarred by his sickness, but he could not leave her, and so what was left of the Queen’s Guards prepared to defend the Queen while her people ran.

The Power came to him during the battle for Caemlyn, and he hurled lightning and fire among the invaders, and split the earth under their feet, yet the feeling came again, too, that he had been born for something else. For all he did, there were too many of the enemy to stop, and they also had those who could channel. At last, a lightning bolt hurled Rand from the Palace wall, broken, bleeding, and burned, and as his last breath rattled in his throat, he heard a voice whisper,  _ you lose again, Lews Therin _ .

Flicker.

The Amyrlin Seat looked her straight in the eye and said, “Because you are the Phoenix Reborn.”

The void rocked. The world rocked. Everything seemed to spin around her. Raye al’Thor concentrated on nothing, and the emptiness returned, the world steadied. “No, Father. I can channel  _ saidar _ , the Light help me, but I am not Rowen Darksbane, nor Gertrin Amalasan, nor Yuria Stonebow. You can Still me, or kill me, or let me go, but I will not be a tame false Phoenix on a Tar Valon leash.”

She heard Varun gasp, and the Amyrlin’s eyes widened, a gaze as hard as blue rock. It did not affect her; it slid off the void within.

“Where did you hear those names?” the Amyrlin demanded, in his deep voice. “Who told you Tar Valon pulls the lines on any false Phoenix?”

“A friend, Father,” she said. “A travelling storyteller. Her name was Tamsin Merrilin. She’s dead, now.” Morgan made a sound, and she glanced at him. He claimed Tamsin was not dead, but Raye could not see how any woman, especially one of Tamsin’s years, could survive grappling hand-to-hand with a Fade. Short and slender as he was, she doubted Morgan could either. Though, of course, he had  _ saidin _ to defend himself with, and no need to worry about going mad from using it. The thought was extraneous, and it faded away. There was only the void and the oneness now.

“You are not a false Phoenix,” the Amyrlin said firmly. “You are the true Phoenix Reborn.”

“I am a farmgirl from the Theren, Father,” Raye said stubbornly.

The Amyrlin leaned back in his chair, looking exasperated. “Son, tell her the story. A true story, girl. Listen well.”

And so Morgan told her a wild tale of an invasion by fierce nomads whose hair was as red as her own, and a Foretelling made by an elderly Aes Sedai just before he expired from the shock of his own words. They told her that the seal that Louise Therin Telachol had placed on the Dark One’s prison was weakening and that only her reincarnation stood a chance of fixing it. They claimed that Raye was that reincarnation. She didn’t want to believe it; everyone knew that Louise Therin had murdered her husband and children. Didn’t the prophecies say the Phoenix Reborn would do the same? Yet, as much as she wanted to deny the Amyrlin’s claims, there was the insidious ring of truth to them.

When the Aes Sedai party left Fal Dara, Raye gave her farewells to Lord Agelmar and the visiting King Easar along with all the rest.

They kept her in Tar Valon for a long time, but did not Still or execute her as she might have thought. And sometimes as she might have desired, in those moments when fear of what she might do if she went mad gripped her heart.

As stifling as her captivity in the Black Tower was there was one bright spot in it, for it was there that she was reunited with Gawyn. The bright young prince whose garden she had so embarrassingly fallen into could channel  _ saidin _ it seemed. He had come to Tar Valon to train to be Aes Sedai and had looked very pleased to realise Raye would be staying there, too. His elder sisters, Elayne and the stunningly beautiful Galadriel, had come with him, apparently to be taught the proper way of managing a household.

Raye encountered Gawyn about the Tower far too often for it to be happenstance. Always he had a shy smile for her, one that brought out his dimples, and always he asked if there was anything he could do to help. “Anything,” he would say, gallantly. “Just name it and it is yours.”

He made good on his offer when the Amyrlin publically proclaimed Raye to be the Phoenix Reborn, and marshalled an army to attack the Stone of Tear. It was in no small part due to Gawyn’s urging that his father King Morgallen agreed to support the campaign. Raye was placed in command, though Morgan and several dozen Aes Sedai were never far from her side, or slow to offer “advice” that was phrased rather like orders. Yet even as arrogant as they so often were the Aes Sedai watched Raye warily. They had seen fit to test her strength in the Power during her long stay in Tar Valon and quickly come to see that not even their strongest initiate came close to matching her.

Gawyn rode with her to battle, but their friend Max they left behind in Tar Valon. Raye had been reluctant to part, for she had begun to have secret, sinful thoughts about the dark-eyed man. About he and Gawyn both in fact. She almost thought that Max might have been willing to make her fantasies come true, from the hints he kept dropping, but she very much doubted a proper prince like Gawyn would be willing to allow such a thing. She valued his opinion of her too much to even suggest it, and feared to ruin his friendship with Max if she continued in their shared company.

Perhaps it was the imminence of war that spurred Gawyn to kiss her at last. His kisses proved shy and sweet and in no time at all she was tangling her fingers in his red-gold curls and kissing him back hungrily. Though she was only a peasant, and cursed with the ability to channel  _ saidar _ , he offered to marry her that very day. And of course she said yes.

They wed in the Royal Palace of Caemlyn while the Tower’s army camped outside the city. If men were reluctant to believe Raye really was the Phoenix Reborn, they were even more reluctant to go against the Black Tower, and so the wedding crowd proved prodigiously huge.

Naturally Gawyn’s sisters attended. Galadriel expressed her satisfaction at seeing a woman in command of an army for the first time since the days of Arturia Hawkwing, and her hopes for a change in the stifling patriarchy to which they had been born. Raye agreed with her new sister-in-law’s sentiments, though she was privately shocked by them. She’d always thought Galadriel the traditionalist among the two, whilst Elayne, though she loved her little brother dearly, seemed to simmer with resentment that Gawyn was heir to Andor instead of her.

Raye’s worries over the future and fear of the fate that awaited her disappeared when she fell into bed with Gawyn that night. They were naked already and her prince could not seem to keep his hands off her breasts or hips or buttocks. She revelled in his touch as she trailed kisses down his neck and took his excited, twitching member in her gentle hands. Gawyn gazed up at her in awe as she knelt above him and aimed his manhood toward her wet and willing entrance. The hair that crowned her sex was as red as the blood she shed for him that night. He cried out her name as he came inside her, his hands resting in the hollows of her waist as she rode him fiercely, eagerly. She didn’t stop riding until her own climax surged up in her and she fell gasping to rest her head on his chest. Gawyn stroked her long red hair, unbraided now as it so rarely was, and rained kisses down on her brow and cheek as he whispered those sweetest of words: “I love you.”

Raye could scarcely stop smiling the next morning. Even when the darkly handsome Dylan Rashamon arrived to tell her the army would be ready to march at midday she could not seem to muster an appropriately solemn response. Elayne sniffed at her as they sat over their breakfast in the very garden in which they had first met, and Raye greeted her new sister’s censure with a chagrined smile and a friendly laugh. The robe she wore was finer than anything she had owned on her first visit to this place, but she had thrown it on with the same casual disregard she would have shown her old woollens.

“That is not the proper way to greet a subordinate in your army,” Elayne said tightly.

Raye shrugged. “So long as he’s doing his job, I don’t see any reason to stand on formality.”

“No. You don’t see,” Elayne muttered. “But I would have.”

Raye leaned over to fetch a peach from the small, three-legged table beside their bench. A sudden pain struck her, right between her shoulders, and the fruit fell from her suddenly nerveless hand. “What?” she gasped.

Elayne’s scowl robbed her of her beauty. “It should have been me, not some peasant girl. I would have done it properly. Instead I get passed over for the likes of you? It’s not right.”

“But I’m only trying to help,” Raye whispered as she slipped off the marble bench to fall once more to the soft dirt of the garden. “I never did anything to you ...”

Elayne looked down on her resentfully. “I always wondered if the Phoenix Reborn could live with a knife through her heart. It seems you are not so special after all.”

As awareness faded from Raye’s mind she heard a voice whisper,  _ you lose again, Louise Therin _ .

Flicker.

Raye and Matti’s trip down the Caemlyn Road proved difficult, and not just because of the Fades and Darkfriends that were hunting for them. Two girls alone in a foreign land, and armed with nothing more than their knives; they attracted a lot of unwelcome attention.

Matti got more and more suspicious as the days passed, both of strangers and even of Raye, and never mind that they’d been friends since they were little girls. Her brown braid lashed like a cat’s tail the time she angrily demanded that Raye “hide them better”, but she had no answer to Raye’s demand to know how exactly she was supposed to do that. It was not as if she was encouraging the attention. She kept herself bundled up in a heavy, hooded cloak as often as she could.

They had many narrow escapes, but Tamsin’s lessons carried them safely all the way down the road to Four Kings. The village was bigger than most, but still a scruffy town to bear a name like that. Village women, their heads covered with scarves, kept their eyes down and walked quickly, sometimes followed by wagoneers’ comments that made Raye blush; even Matti gave a start at some of them. Noise hung over everything, clanging from blacksmiths, shouts from the wagon drivers, raucous laughter from the town’s inns.

Raye swung down from the back of a merchant’s canvas-topped wagon as they came abreast of a garishly painted inn, all greens and yellows that caught the eye from afar among the leaden houses. The line of wagons kept moving. None of the drivers even seemed to notice that she and Matti had gone; dusk was falling, and they all had their eyes on unhitching the horses and reaching the inns.

“I don’t know about this place,” she said. “I don’t like it. Maybe we’d better go on this time.”

Matti gave her a scornful look, then rolled her eyes at the sky. Dark clouds thickened overhead. “And sleep under a hedge tonight? In that? I’m used to a bed again.” She cocked her head to listen, then sniffed. “Maybe one of these places doesn’t have musicians. Anyway, I’ll bet they don’t have a juggler.” She started for the bright yellow door, studying everything through narrowed eyes. Raye followed doubtfully towards the door of The Dancing Cartman.

A bony man with long, stringy hair to his shoulders turned to scowl at them as they came through the door. The first slow peal of thunder rumbled across Four Kings. “What do you want?” He was rubbing his hands on a greasy apron that hung to his ankles. Raye wondered if more grime was coming off on the apron or on the man’s hands. “Well? Speak up, buy a drink, or get out! Do I look like a raree show?”

Flushing, Raye launched into the spiel she had perfected at inns before this. “I play the flute, and my friend juggles, and you’ll not see two better in a year. For a good room and a good meal, we’ll fill this common room of yours. We’ll fill your inn with men who will repay the little we cost twenty times over with the food and drink they buy.”

The innkeeper sucked his teeth thoughtfully, eyeing Raye and Matti. “Tell you what,” he said finally. “You can have a couple of pallets in an empty storeroom in the back. Rooms are too expensive to give away. You eat when everybody’s gone. There ought to be something left.”

“The pallets will do if they’re clean,” Raye sighed. “And the food. But that we can get anywhere for doing a lot less. We’ll want coin if we’re to play here. Enough for passage on the next caravan at the least. Here. We’ll show you what we can do.” She reached for the flute case, but Hake shook his head.

“Don’t matter. This lot’ll be satisfied with any kind of screeching so long as it sounds something like music. I’ll pay, but if you don’t bring the crowd in, Jak and Strom will see you out in the street.” He nodded over his shoulder at two hard-faced men sitting against the wall. They were not drinking, and their arms were thick enough for legs. When Hake nodded at them, their eyes shifted to Raye and Matti, flat and expressionless.

“As long as we get what’s agreed on,” she said in a level tone.

Hake smirked dismissively. “What I said isn’t it? Well, get started. You won’t bring anybody in just standing there.” He stalked off, scowling and shouting at the serving maids as if there were fifty customers they were neglecting.

There was a small, raised platform at the far end of the room, near the door to the back. They spent most of that evening sitting on a bench there, while Raye played and Matti juggled, and they both tried to ignore the raucous calls of the crowd below. It was far from pleasant, but it was no more than they were used to by now.

Eventually the need to be up with the dawn began to pull men reluctantly out into the dark. A farmer had only himself to answer to, but merchants were notoriously unfeeling about hangovers when they were paying drivers’ wages. In the small hours the common room slowly emptied as even those who had rooms abovestairs staggered off to find their beds.

Hake locked the front door with a big key, then gave Raye and Matti a lingering look. Jak and Strom stood at his shoulders.

Matti he put her hand under her cloak as she watched Hake and his toughs approach. She kept that odd knife she’d found in Shadar Logoth hidden there, and fingered it often.

Hake was carrying an oil lamp, and to Raye’s surprise he gave a little bow and gestured to a side door with it. “Your pallets are this way.”

Matti raised an eyebrow at Jak and Strom. “You need those two to show us our beds?”

“I’m a man of property,” Hake said, smoothing the front of his soiled apron, “and men of property can’t be too careful.” A crash of thunder rattled the windows, and he glanced significantly at the ceiling, then gave them a toothy grin. “You want to see your beds or not?”

Raye didn’t like him, but then she hadn’t liked many of the folk they’d met since getting separated from the rest of their friends. “Lead the way,” she said, trying to make her voice hard. “I don’t like having anybody behind me.”

Strom snickered, but Hake nodded placidly and turned toward the side door, and the two big men swaggered after him. She followed the innkeeper glumly. At the side door she hesitated, and Matti crowded into her back. The reason for Hake’s lamp was apparent. The door let into a hall as black as pitch. Only the lamp Hake carried, silhouetting Jak and Strom, gave her the courage to keep on. The hall ended in a rough, unpainted door. Hake lifted the lamp high and gestured at the room.

“Here it is.”

An old storeroom, he had called it, and by the look of it not used in some time. Weathered barrels and broken crates filled half the floor. Steady drips fell from more than one place on the ceiling, and a broken pane in the filthy window let the rain blow in freely. Unidentifiable odds and ends littered the shelves, and thick dust covered almost everything. The promised pallets looked dirty.

“It’ll do,” she said. “Leave the lamp.”

Hake grunted, but pushed the lamp onto a shelf. He hesitated for a moment, looking at them, and then he jerked his head at the two big men. Smiles flashed across their broad faces, and they lunged across the room towards Raye and Matti.

Raye went for her knife, and so did Matti, but the men caught their wrists in vicelike grips before they could draw blood. Jak grinned at the sight of the ruby-hilted dagger Matti held.

“Well there’s a sweet bonus,” Hake smirked. “And here I thought all we’d found was a pair of little country sluts. You can have the skinny one if you want, Jak. I’m more interested in the red-haired bitch with the big tits.”

Jak grunted, leering at them both. “Bit plain, but I’ll fuck her. For dessert. Tits first.”

“You take your hands off us right now,” Raye said, trying to keep her voice calm despite the way her heart was racing, “and we won’t bring the King’s Guards down on you. What sort of men accost innocent travellers like this?”

Hake slapped her face, and she cried out despite herself. She was still blinking in shock when they pounced on her, pushing her down onto the dirty pallet and tearing at her clothes. She heard Matti call her name, before a meaty slap silenced her.

Raye tried to fight them, but they were so much stronger than her, and she had no weapons. Not that she would have known how to use one even if she’d had it. Strom ripped her blouse down the front and her breasts spilled free; they’d been exposed only seconds before his rough hands were groping at the pale globes. Hake dragged her skirts down over her legs despite her kicking, and then immediately grabbed hold of her knickers and yanked them off, too. She tried to cover her body with her hands, but it did no good, and only made the horrible men laugh at her.

Jak ripped Matti’s clothes from her, too, ignoring the girl’s defiant curses. He used her ripped clothes to tie her up, and stole the opportunity to grope and pinch her small breasts and narrow butt in the process, before leaving her laying face down on the other pallet. For later. He grinned widely as he came to join the two who were holding Raye down, fishing his thick, hard cock out of his trousers as he advanced.

“Get off me, burn you!” she growled, but the men only laughed.

“Keep fighting, bitch,” Hake sneered, “it only makes it better.” Raye didn’t want to do anything that would please these men, but she wasn’t about to give up without a fight either, so she kept struggling to the bitter end.

Her struggles were futile though. They pushed her over onto her side and Strom lay down behind her, fumbling at his belt. Jak took hold of her leg at the knee, his hard grip and cruel hands forcing her to open herself to him. She screamed when he thrust his cock into her dry pussy.

Hands pawed at the fleshy globes of her ass, pushing them apart. She had only a brief warning before another cock forced its way into her body, stretching her tight butthole in a way that forced another, even louder scream from her lips.

Strom laughed. “Turns out she likes having someone behind her after all.”

With Raye pinned between them, the two thugs abandoned their hold on her legs and began pawing at her breasts, and pulling on her hair as their cocks pumped in and out of her body.

“Bet you bloody love it, don’t you, you dirty little slut? Parading around like that, just begging to be fucked,” grunted Jak as he raped her.

“With a face and a body like that, she’s probably fucked half of Andor,” sneered Hake. He knelt at the top of the pallet and took hold of Raye’s thick, red braid. The innkeeper had his cock out; it was short and thin. He waited for a particularly rough thrust from his hired bullies to force a cry from Raye’s lips before shoving the foul thing into her mouth. He wasted no more time before starting to fuck her face.

The men laughed as they raped all three of her holes, and Raye couldn’t stop the tears from leaking down her cheeks. The men were, of course, unmoved by her pain or grief. Her rage wouldn’t move them either, but as it grew inside it at least warmed her. She fair crackled with heat in fact.

The fluids they spurted into her body were warm, too. Far from quenching the heat inside her, they only made it grow stronger, like adding oil to a flame. Murderous fury contorted Raye’s face as Hake’s vile come dribbled over her chin. When she felt Jak coming in her womb, that fury burst out as a roar that split the heavens themselves.

Light filled the room, flooding vision; the air roared and burned. Raye felt herself picked up and dashed sideways against the wall. She slid down in a heap, ears ringing and every hair on her body trying to stand on end. A warm body cushioned her fall. Dazed, she looked down at the man beneath her. Jak stared blankly, heedless of the burns that covered the skin of his face and body.  _ He’s dead _ , she realised. Then, _ and he’s still in me! _ Sickened, she pushed herself off him and staggered to her feet. Her knees wobbled, and she put a hand against the wall to steady herself. She looked around in horrified amazement.

The lamp, lying on its side on the edge of one of the few shelves still clinging to the walls, still burned and gave light. All the barrels and crates, some blackened and smouldering, lay toppled where they had been hurled. The window, bars and all, and most of the wall, too, had vanished, leaving a splintered hole. The roof sagged, and tendrils of smoke fought the rain around the jagged edges of the opening. The door hung off its hinges, jammed in the doorframe at an angle slanting into the hall.

Hake and Strom were just as dead as Jak, though Raye herself was miraculously unharmed.  _ What happened? They almost look as though they were struck by lightning, but that’s impossible. Isn’t it? If it  _ was _ lightning, then how am I still alive? And where’s—? _

“Matti!”

She searched through the rubble frantically until she found her friend, still laying face down on the pallet. Raye felt a moment’s relief, but only a moment’s. When she turned Matti over, her friend’s dark eyes stared at her emptily. They almost looked accusing.

“No! Please, Light no!” Raye’s scream was so loud it almost drowned out the voice that seemed to issue from everywhere, and nowhere.  _ You lose again, Louise Therin _ .

Flicker.

The sudden arrival of a Forsaken in their midst would have been shocking at any time, but for one to show up there, in the midst of the Green Man’s magical garden was particularly stunning to Rand.

“Run!” Moiraine commanded. Her face was white with strain. “All of you run!”

For once, they were happy to heed her orders. He saw Mat and Perrin dashing away to the east. Loial’s long legs carried him south into the trees.

Anna seized Rand’s forearm in a fear-strengthened grip. “Hurry, we need to get out of here!” Together they ran after Loial.

They were at the edge of the woodland clearing when Rand glanced to his side and saw that Egwene was not there. What he saw when he looked back brought him skidding to a halt.

Anna was tugged to a stop, too, her grip on his arm unyielding. “What are you doing?” she cried.

Egwene, that brave fool, stood rigid back by the entrance to the Eye. She had not moved a step. Her face was pale and her eyes were closed. It was not fear that held her, he realized. She was trying to throw her puny, untrained wielding of the Power against the Forsaken.

“Egwene! Run!” he shouted at her. Her eyes opened, staring at him, angry with him for interfering, liquid with hate for Aginor, with fear of the Forsaken.

Rand went back to get her. He did. There was no choice. It was what he had to do, what he always did, he somehow knew. But he made it only a single step.

Anna dug her heels into the soft earth of the Green Man’s garden, holding on to Rand’s arm for dear life. “Don’t be a fool!” she said in an uncharacteristically high-pitched voice. “He’ll kill you.”

“I don’t care. Egwene!” Rand said, panic raising his own pitch as well.

Anna’s dark eyes were very wide. They implored him. “It’s her life, let her fight if she wants. But if you go back there, then I have to go back, too, and I don’t fancy my chances of beating a Forsaken with my bow.”

Rand wrenched his arm out of her grip. “Just run, Anna. This is my fight.” He sprinted back towards Egwene.

Aginor’s withered face turned from the faltering Aes Sedai to Egwene ... and that irritated sneer returned in force.

Rand felt the flames singe his boots as he tackled Egwene out of the way. A sudden inferno appeared in the spot where she had been standing, hot enough to scald his skin even as he rolled desperately away from it with Egwene in his arms. She cursed at him, calling him all sorts of names and demanding he let her go, but he held on for dear life as he dragged her away from the Forsaken.

He didn’t get far. Aginor raised his hand towards Rand and made that hateful gesture once more, but before the flames could rise an arrow careened off the Forsaken’s invisible shield.

Anna hadn’t run. She stood alone with her bow in hand, nocking and loosing arrows as quickly as she could, in a futile display of defiance. Aginor turned his scowl her way.

“Run, Rand!” she cried, jaw clenched and cheeks pale. “Get out of here while you can!”

Then she gave a single shriek. For an instant, a dark, girl-sized form stood within a ball of flame. Then it frayed away, to ash, to smoke. So hot was the fire that in heartbeats nothing remained of the girl within. Her bravery and her beauty and her loyalty, all snuffed out with another scornful flip of the Forsaken’s gnarled fingers.

Tears burned their way down Rand’s cheeks. He seized Egwene by the hand, and they ran.

Rand though about Anna often in the days and years that followed. He thought about her every time Egwene told him how worthless he was, and every time she launched another plot against him. Sometimes he made it a point to remind Egwene of her sacrifice, for the other Theren woman never seemed to remember anyone from back home. It made no difference. Egwene didn’t care about it; she didn’t seem to care about anything but the White Tower, and even that only when it served her ambitions. Rand wondered if she ever had. She dismissed Anna as a brave little fool; a cautionary tale that Rand should have learned from.

Rand did learn. He learned bitterness, and regret. He learned hate.

That Egwene would turn against him he considered inevitable, but the way so many of his friends sided with her soured him on them. Nynaeve, Elayne, Perrin, others. They embraced the traditions of the White Tower and the matriarchy, and came to see Rand as a threat to it. Which perhaps he might have been, given all the power and authority he had gathered to himself by the time Egwene finally claimed the Amyrlin Seat she had so desired. Might have been, if he cared enough to fight them. But he had no heart to struggle against people he had once considered friends. So when she tried to usurp his command, as he knew she would, and his friends sided with her, he simply walked away. He wondered as he did so if Egwene would be happy at last, and a cruel smile spread across his face. He knew her happiness would not last. And he no longer cared.

The Amyrlin Seat ruled most of Valgarda when the Shadow’s armies invaded. She and her servants fought bravely, but Rand merely watched. He watched as they were overrun, watched as the Borderlands, and Andor, and Tar Valon fell to the Forsaken, he watched and he laughed.

He was there when the Forsaken called Mesaana confronted Egwene at the gates of the White Tower, with dead Aes Sedai scattered all around them. A mad, manic grin twisted his face as he watched from the roof of a distant building,  _ saidin _ raging inside him and bringing Egwene’s words to his ears. She prated of the White Tower’s age and power, throwing proud defiance in the Forsaken’s face, but the other woman only laughed. Tar Valon was the greatest city in Valgarda, yet it was merely a quaint village in comparison to the cities of the Age of Legends, and the Tower—the tallest building in the world—was smaller even than the offices of most merchant companies that the Forsaken had known of. The very idea that she would find the Tower and its so-called Aes Sedai intimidating was laughable. Egwene did not listen, she was too busy harping on about the glories of the Amyrlin Seat, as though simply wishing for a thing to be true could make it so. Mesaana grew bored, and raised her hand in a way that seemed wickedly familiar to Rand. He cackled with laughter as the flames seared through Egwene’s shields to torch the woman behind them. No tears spilled from his eyes as he watched her and her world die around him.

When the Forsaken came for him, Rand fought at last, but he did not expect to win. There was nothing left worth fighting for. He turned the world to ash and dust, neither knowing nor caring how many of the Forsaken he took down with him. And when at last their numbers overwhelmed him, as he burned, just like Anna and Egwene had burned, he heard a voice whisper,  _ you lose again, Lews Therin. _

Flicker.

Rand struggled to hold the void as it quivered under the hammer blows of the world’s flickering. He tried to hold the symbol Verin had shown him as a thousand of them darted along the surface of the void. He struggled to hold on to any symbol at all.

“... is wrong!” Verin screamed. The Power was everything.

Flicker. Flicker. Flicker. Flicker. Flicker. Flicker.

He was a soldier. He was a shepherd. He was a beggar, and a king. He was farmer, gleeman, sailor, carpenter. He was born, lived, and died an Aiel named Rahien. He died mad, he died rotting, he died of sickness, accident, age. He was executed, and multitudes cheered his death. He proclaimed himself the Dragon Reborn and flung his banner across the sky; he ran from the Power and hid; he lived and died never knowing. She embraced the title of the Phoenix Reborn and led a revolution; it succeeded; it failed. She held off the madness and the sickness for years; he succumbed between two winters. Sometimes Moiraine came and took him away from the Theren, alone or with those of his friends who had survived Winternight; sometimes she did not. Sometimes he wasn’t him when she arrived, and she was a man named Morgan. Sometimes other Aes Sedai came for him, or her. Male Aes Sedai in long black coats, female ones in colourful dresses. Sometimes the Red Ajah and whether he was Rand or Raye they rarely survived that meeting. He settled in Shienar, winning glory in battle and eventually the heart of Queen Kensin; and when they realised that he could channel and she ordered him to take his own life he did so gladly, as she watched with tears running down her cheeks. She fled the Theren a week before her marriage to Edwin and in Baerlon she met a friendly young man named Max who won her heart; together they wandered the land with a travelling circus, until the Shadow came to still all the world’s laughter. Egwene, stern-faced in the stole of the Amyrlin Seat, led the Aes Sedai who Gentled him; Edwin, with tears in his eyes, plunged a dagger into her heart, and she thanked him as she died. He loved other women, married other women. Elayne, Min, Nynaeve, Anna, Bodewhin, others, women he had never seen before he lived those lives. A hundred lives. More. So many he could not count them. And at the end of every life, as they lay dying, as they drew their final breath, a voice whispered in their ear.  _ You lose again ... _

Flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker.


	31. Return

CHAPTER 59: Return

The void vanished, contact with  _ saidin _ fled, and Rand fell to the earth with a thud that would have knocked the breath out of him if he had not already been half numb. He felt rough stone under his cheek, and his hands. It was cold.

He was aware of Verin, struggling from her back to hands and knees. He heard someone vomit roughly, and raised his head. Uno was kneeling on the ground, scrubbing the back of his hand across his mouth. Almost everyone was down, and the horses stood stiff-legged and quivering, eyes wild and rolling. Ingtar had his sword out, gripping the hilt so hard the blade shook, staring at nothing. Loial sat sprawled, wide-eyed and stunned. Anna was huddled in a ball with her arms wrapped around her head, and Perrin had his fingers dug into his face as if he wanted to rip away whatever he had seen, or perhaps rip out the eyes that had seen it. None of the soldiers were any better. Masema wept openly, tears streaming down his face; Geko stood stiffly at attention but no sooner had Rand glanced his way than the man fell to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut; Ayame sat on a rock with his face in his hands, the dark eyes above his overlapping fingers showing white all around; Areku stood with her back to them all, her fists white-knuckled and trembling; and Hurin was looking around as if for a place to run.

Rand waited for a sword to fall and a voice to whisper. He waited for what felt like a long time, but no-one spoke. All around the clearing there was only the sound of panicked breathing from man and woman alike.

“What ...?” Rand stopped to swallow. He was lying on rough, weathered stone half buried in the dirt. “What happened?”

“A surge of the One Power.” The Aes Sedai tottered to her feet and pulled her cloak tight with a shiver. “It was as if we were being forced ... pushed ... It seemed to come out of nowhere. You must learn to control it. You must! That much of the Power could burn you to a cinder.”

“Where am I?” Anna mumbled. She was still curled up tightly. “When am I? And ... who?”

The same questions were running through Rand’s mind but the sound of her distress drove him to haul himself off his back and onto one knee. He remembered how she had grinned on their wedding day ...

_ No _ , he thought, shaking his head.  _ That didn’t happen, that wasn’t me. It was ... another me. I think. Is this real?  _ He still expected the sword to fall and the voice to whisper and the world to flicker away at any moment.

“You’re Anna,” Rand said, with what firmness he could muster. “Anna al’Tolan from the Theren. My friend. We were searching for the Horn of Valere together.”

Ingtar let out a groan of despair. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth as though in great pain.

“I remember that,” Anna mumbled. “I remember ... so many things.”

“So do I,” Rand sighed. “Verin, I ... I lived ... I was ...” Shakily, he pushed himself to his feet. “Verin, I lived and died, I don’t know how many times. Every time it was different, but it was me. It was me.” Even Raye had been him, strangely, so strangely. And perhaps the most strange thing about that had been all the ways it hadn’t mattered. Male or female he had still felt like himself and that flew in the face of everything he had been taught about the sexes. He’d been the same person for the most part, he’d just had ... well, and ... Rand felt his cheeks colour as he recalled some of the things she had done, and allowed to be done to her.

“The Lines that join the Worlds That Might Be, laid by those who knew the Numbers of Chaos.” Verin shuddered; she seemed to be talking to herself. “I’ve never heard it, but there is no reason we would not be born in those worlds, yet the lives we lived would be different lives. Of course. Different lives for the different ways things might have happened.”

“Is that what happened? I ... we ... saw how our lives could have been?”  _ You lose again, Lews Therin. No! I am Rand al’Thor! _

Verin gave herself a shake and looked at him. “Does it surprise you that your life might go differently if you made different choices, or different things happened to you? Though I never thought I —Well. The important thing is, we are here. Though not as we hoped.”

“Where is here?” he demanded. The woods of Stedding Tsofu were gone, replaced by rolling hills. There seemed to be a forest on the eastern horizon. It had been near noon on a warm summer’s day when they gathered around the Stone near the  _ stedding _ but here the sun stood low toward afternoon in a grey sky that smelled of snow. The handful of trees nearby were bare branched, or else held a few leaves bright with colour. A cold wind gusted from the east, sending leaves scurrying across the ground. “And ... when?”

“Toman Head,” Verin said. “This is the Stone I visited. You should not have tried to bring us directly here. I don’t know what went wrong—I don’t suppose I ever will—but from the trees, would say it is well into late autumn. Rand, we haven’t gained any time by it. We’ve lost time. I would say we have easily spent four months in coming here.”

“But I didn’t—”

“You must let me guide you in these things. I cannot teach you, it’s true, but perhaps I can at least keep you from killing yourself—and the rest of us—by overreaching. Even if you do not kill yourself, if the Dragon Reborn burns himself out like a guttering candle, who will face the Dark One then?” She did not wait for him to renew his protests, but went to Ingtar instead.

The Shienaran gave a start when she touched his arm, and looked at her with frantic eyes. “I walk in the Light,” he said hoarsely. “I will find the Horn of Valere and pull down Shayol Ghul’s power. I will!”

“Of course you will,” she said soothingly. She took his face in her hands, and he drew a sudden breath, abruptly recovering from whatever had held him. Except that memory still lay in his eyes. “There,” she said. “That will do for you. I will see how I can help the rest. We may still recover the Horn, but our path has not grown smoother.”

As she started around among the others, stopping briefly by each, her Warder trailed her. He seemed to have recovered his balance faster than the rest of them, though even he had a vaguely stunned look in his eyes. His hand darted to the hilt of his sword when a scuffle broke out between Sar and Nengar, seemingly over nothing.

Uno was quick to get between the two soldiers, dragging one man back by the arm that locked around his neck and shoving the second one away. “It wasn’t him, you goat-kissing dung-hauler! Whatever it was, it wasn’t real. Get a hold of yourselves.”

Rand drew a deep breath and tried to take Uno’s advice. He went to his friends, making certain to walk well clear of the weathered grey stone pillar that lay on its side in the middle of the clearing. The markings carved into it were so worn as to be barely visible he saw before jerking his eyes away, just in case.

“Perrin?”

The curly-haired youth dropped his hands from his face with a sigh. Red marks scored his forehead and cheeks where his nails had dug in. His yellow eyes hid his thoughts. “We don’t have many choices really, do we, Rand? Whatever happens, whatever we do, some things are almost always the same.” He let out another long breath. “Where are we? Is this one of those worlds you and Hurin were talking about?”

“It’s Toman Head,” Rand told him. “In our world. Or so Verin says. And we’ve lost months.”

Anna had regained her feet. “How could—?” she began, then continued in a gruffer voice. “No, I don’t want to know how it happened. But how are we going to find Fain and the Horn now? He could be anywhere by this time.”

“He’s here,” Rand said, though even to his own ears he sounded unconvincing. Fain had had time to take ship for anyplace he wanted to go. Time to ride to Emond’s Field. Or Tar Valon.  _ Light send he didn’t get tired of waiting. If he’s hurt Nynaeve, or Mat, or anybody in Emond’s Field, I’ll ... Burn me, I tried to come in time _ .

Loial still had not risen. He sat on the cold stone with his chin resting on one huge hand and a pensive look on his face. When he noticed Rand watching he gave a small sigh. “If I never do or see anything else in my life, this experience alone will still be enough to fill a book. Though if I’m honest, I would much rather have just read about it.”

“Me too,” Rand muttered. He offered the Ogier a hand to rise, despite the differences in height between them. Loial smiled wryly as he grasped Rand’s forearm and hauled himself up.

“There are some larger towns between here and Falme,” Verin announced loudly enough for all to hear. Everyone was on their feet again. “If we are to find any trace of the Darkfriends, to the west is the place to begin. And I think we should not waste the daylight sitting here.”

She put her hands on Perrin and the bloody furrows on his brow swiftly faded. Rand backed away when she reached for him.

“Don’t be foolish,” she told him.

“I don’t want your help,” he said quietly. “Or any Aes Sedai help.”

Her lips twitched. “As you wish.”

They mounted up and rode northwest, gladly leaving the Portal Stone and the worlds it linked to far behind them.

If any among them had entertained the thought of burying the memory of those other lives completely, what they learned in Atuan’s Mill rid them of that hope.

Most of the houses in the village were single-storied, though with room for a large attic under their steeply sloped wooden roofs. They would have been considered very fine by Emond’s Field standards, if they did not look so run-down. The village seemed half deserted and those folk who remained were slow to venture out of their homes, no matter Ingtar’s assurances of their good intentions. When at last he coaxed them out the people babbled one moment and clamped their mouths shut the next, trembling and looking over their shoulders. They spoke of strange invaders from across the ocean, of an army of monsters and  _ damane; _ and they spoke a name that sent shivers down Rand’s back, for he had heard it before even as he heard it now for the first time. The Seanchan. How many times in those other worlds had he fought and killed and been killed by those who bore that name? From the widened eyes of his companions as they listened to the Falmerans’ tales he did not think he was the only one to recognise what they were describing.

That women who should have been Aes Sedai were instead leashed like animals frightened the villagers even more than the strange creatures the Seanchan commanded, things the folk of Atuan’s Mill could only describe in whispers as coming from nightmares. Verin’s mouth tightened angrily as she listened, though Rand noticed that she didn’t seem at all surprised by what she heard.

The villagers spoke, too, of dead queens and absent kings, of battles fought and lost, and shook as they spoke of the examples the Seanchan had made when they first came to pacify Atuan’s Mill. They had buried their dead, but they feared to clean away the large charred patch on the stones of the village square. Hurin had vomited as soon as they entered the village, and he would not go near the blackened ground. None of the villagers would say exactly what had happened there, they only gave warning that the Seanchan did not tolerate disobedience from anyone. As obviously foreign as their party was, with an Ogier and so many topknotted Shienarans, the folk of Atuan’s Mill seemed especially insistent on warning them about the Seanchan’s ways, and the need to stay clear of them.

Ingtar thanked them for their advice, and for the shelter they granted on his request. He had Uno set a watch, and he and the rest of his men dispersed to the sadly empty houses.

Perrin and Anna, both looking rather solemn, volunteered to take care of the horses and Rand was happy to leave Red in their charge.

He chose a cottage of his own and went inside and tried not to look too long at the scattered belongings of an owner that would never return to claim them. As he tried to sort his thoughts, and his memories, he kindled a fire in the hearth and fed it well to drive the chill and damp of disuse from the cottage. Though he was tired he did not feel like sleeping and found himself pacing back and forth before his fire as the evening turned to night outside the cloudy glass windows.

The sun had long-since set when there came a soft tapping on his door.

When he opened it he found a figure in a padded undercoat waiting.

“Can I come in?” Areku asked quietly.

Rand stepped aside from the doorway. “Of course.”

She walked past him and went to warm her hands by the fire as he closed and, after a moment’s consideration, bolted the door.

He studied Areku as he went to join her by the fire. She looked as solemn as ever, but her solemnity had a haunted air to it now.

“It’s been a long day,” he sighed. “The longest imaginable, in fact.”

“Yes. Four and a half months worth of ...” she shook her head, grey topknot swaying.

“I know. But it’s over now.”

She didn’t meet his eyes. “Is it? How can you be certain? What if everything just ... changes again? What if this isn’t real either?”

Rand sighed. “I’ve been having the same thoughts. The best reassurance I can find for myself is that in none of the other ... lives ... or worlds ... whatever, I was never aware then that they were other worlds, that there was anything but the me that I was then. If that makes sense. But I remember myself now, and I remember those other mes.” He gave an exasperated shrug, sure he was failing miserably to explain himself. “Besides. This feels real somehow. This world, the people with me. They are ... right. I think we’re back where we belong at last.”

“I hope so,” Areku breathed. “But I’m not sure I feel real.” She looked at him then, her face still and her eyes questioning.

Rand reached out and touched his fingers gently to the smooth plane of her cheek. “I wish there was something I could do to help you with that ...” he said in a near whisper.

“I think you could ...” she responded in a voice as soft as his own. “If you wanted to.”

“I do,” he said and leaned in for a kiss.

Areku’s lips parted under his. Instinctually Rand tried to run his fingers through her hair but, of course, his touch found only her shaven skull. It felt strange to caress her so, but thrillingly exotic as well. His kisses grew firmer.

Areku had been pliant at first, stiff even, but soon she was kissing him back and pushing up his shirt to run her callused hands over his body. It was she who steered them towards the pallet he had earlier hauled close to the fireside, and when they landed atop the blankets it was she who was on top.

She eagerly rid Rand of his shirt and started caressing the muscles of his chest and stomach. “So pretty,” she whispered.

As he endeavoured to kick off his boots his growing manhood bumped against her clothed form. Areku gave a small smile at the sensation and clambered off him to attend to her own boots. When he was done Rand helped rid her of the heavy leather trousers she wore, and stole the opportunity to trail kisses down the inside of her muscular thighs in the process.

Having rid themselves of half their clothes they returned to kissing, this time with Rand on top. He caressed Areku’s sex through the heavy white cloth of her breechclout and savoured her low moans. She was eager, and in no time at all she was rolling them over and pulling at Rand’s breeches, freeing his hard length from its confinement.

“Yes, oh yes,” she murmured as she beheld him. She sat up and pulled her breechclout aside. The narrow twist of cloth at the back had barely covered the crack between her toned buttocks even before she shifted it but he was afforded little time to enjoy the sight before Areku threw a leg over his waist and mounted him. She took him in her hands and positioned him at her entrance then sank down onto him slowly; her sigh was long and sweet and grew louder with each inch that slipped into her hot, tight hole.

As eager as she had been to begin, once she had him inside her Areku moved slowly, rolling her hips and moaning quietly. Rand was glad of it. After all that had happened lately he was not in the mood for speed. He wanted something that would last.

He wanted to see her body, too. But when he started to undo the laces on her padded coat she caught his hands in hers and stiffened.

“I want to see you,” he breathed.

Areku gave a tight little shrug and grimaced. “You aren’t missing much.”

“I’m missing you. And that’s a lot.” She didn’t fight him as he removed her coat and started unwinding the wraps from her chest, but she didn’t meet his eye either, and the rolling of her hips stopped completely.

Areku’s shoulders and arms were heavy with muscle, especially for a woman; her breasts, reddened where the cloth had bound them tight, were girlishly small and tipped with hard, brown nipples. Rand thought her altogether beautiful and told her so as squeezed her breasts in his hands.

Areku turned her face away, an uncharacteristic blush darkening her cheeks. She bit her lip. “Now there’s a lordly courtesy,” she gasped.

Rand pushed his hips up off the bed once, twice, three times, more, pushing his rock-hard cock into her slick pussy. “Does this feel like some empty courtesy, Areku?” he groaned. “You’re beautiful woman. Don’t ever tell yourself different.”

The smile she gave him lit up her usually stern face and crinkled the corners of her near-black eyes. She stilled him with a hand on his flat stomach and took up her earlier pace once more, riding Rand slowly and steadily.

Together they savoured every moment that the world did not shift around them until at last Rand began to feel that he really was back where he belonged.

He woke with the dawn, a habit that had been ingrained in him after years of farm work, only to find that Areku had already stirred from their bed. She stood before the dim embers of his fire, adjusting her breechclout. The hair she now hid was the same shade as that on her head, a grey too dark and uniform to be the result of aging. He should know, he’d gotten a very close look at it during the long night before.

Rand stretched happily as he recalled the things they had done.

The sound brought Areku’s attention his way. A smile flickered across her lips. “Good morning. Sorry if I woke you.” Her lips had felt wonderful upon his cock. And she had seemed to enjoy the way he massaged her shaven scalp as she took him in her mouth.

“You didn’t wake me,” he told her, smiling broadly. “I always had to get up at this time on the farm. No matter how little sleep I’d gotten the night before.”

“Should I apologise for that last part instead then?” Areku asked with a hint of wry humour.

It surprised and delighted him. He had been equally as surprised when, as he was taking her slowly from behind and tracing his fingers along the muscles and curves of her body, she had reached back and pushed his manhood out of her creamy depths only to redirect it towards the tone cheeks of her bottom and the tight little hole that hid between them. Areku was only a few years his senior, but she had certainly been no virgin. She hadn’t even flinched as he stretched her back entrance and pushed his full length inside, though Rand knew he was bigger than most men. That had been the third and final time he had come in her. He didn’t know for certain how many times she had come, she was not a very expressive woman, but he liked to think it had been a lot.

“Apologise?” he answered now. “Never. In fact you should come back over here and keep me awake some more.”

She laughed softly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Lord Ingtar will be expecting us to be ready to march soon.” As she fetched and began to put on her trousers she grew pensive. By the time she had laced up her padded undercoat she was frowning. “Rand ...” she began hesitantly. “Can I trust you to be discreet about this? You aren’t going to start pinching my bottom in the line for dinner are you? Or throwing thinly-disguised innuendos my way every time we meet. I like you, don’t get me wrong. I’d like to do this again sometime, if you’re willing. But I don’t want the men in my squad to have reason to gossip about me.”

Rand sat up in bed and opened his mouth to speak. Then let it drift shut again. His first instinct was to offer his assurances that he would never do or say anything that would compromise her reputation. But how could he say that for certain? It was not as though every word or action of his was carefully planned out beforehand. What would he not find himself saying in an unguarded moment when someone he cared about was near? And he found that he did care about Areku, quite a lot in fact. He considered the situation carefully before answering.

“I can’t promise that nothing will be different between us, Areku. But I can promise that I won’t tell anyone what happened last night, or try to embarrass you, or flirt with you in public.” He offered an apologetic smile. “I’ll be as discreet as I can be.”

She took a while to respond, but when she did it was with a small smile. “I think that will be enough.”

She preceded him from the cottage, and by the time Rand had washed and dressed and emerged into the dark winter morning she had faded back into the armoured mass of Ingtar’s army.

Perrin and Anna came out to join the gathering party before daybreak. Rand studiously avoided looking at them, and said nothing of the fact that they had shared a cabin the night before.

Despite the rest and relaxation Atuan’s Mill had afforded them it was a sombre party that rode west that day. They rode towards Falme, and no man or woman among them was certain of what they would find there. Fain and the Horn if they were lucky, and bared Seanchan swords if they were not.

The weather turned foul perhaps an hour into their journey and by the time they approached the next village thunder was rumbling across the slate-dark afternoon sky.

Rand pulled the hood of his cloak further up, hoping to keep at least some of the cold rain off. Red stepped through muddy puddles doggedly. The hood hung sodden around Rand’s head, as the rest of the cloak did around his shoulders, and his fine black coat was just as wet, and as cold. The temperature would not have far to drop before snow or sleet came down instead of rain. Snow would fall soon, again; the people in Atuan’s Mill had said two snows had already come this year. Shivering, Rand almost wished it was snowing. Then, at least, he would not be soaked to the skin.

The column plodded along, keeping a wary eye on the rolling country. Ingtar’s Grey Owl hung heavily from Bartu’s staff even when the wind gusted. Hurin sometimes pulled his cowl back to sniff the air; he said neither rain nor cold had any effect on a trail, certainly not on the kind of trail he was seeking, but so far the sniffer had found nothing. Behind him, Rand heard Uno mutter a curse. Loial kept checking his saddlebags; he did not seem to mind getting wet himself, but he worried continually about his books. Everyone was miserable except for Verin, who appeared too lost in thought to even notice that her hood had slid back, exposing her face to the rain.

“Can’t you do something about this?” Rand demanded of her. A small voice in the back of his head told him he could do it himself. All he need do was embrace  _ saidin _ . So sweet, the call of  _ saidin _ . To be filled with the One Power, to be one with the storm. Turn the skies to sunlight, or ride the storm as it raged, whip it to fury and scour Toman Head clean from the sea to the plain. Embrace  _ saidin _ . He suppressed the longing ruthlessly.

The Aes Sedai gave a start. “What? Oh. I suppose. A little. I couldn’t stop a storm this big, not by myself—it covers too much area—but I could lessen it some. Where we are, at least.” She wiped rain from her face, seemed to realize for the first time that her hood had slipped, and pulled it back up absently.

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because if I used that much of the One Power, any Aes Sedai closer than ten miles would know someone had channelled. We don’t want to bring these Seanchan down on us with some of their  _ damane _ .”

“Why did Fain bring the Horn here?” Perrin muttered. The question had been asked by each of them at one time or another, and no-one had an answer. “There’s war, and these Seanchan, and their monsters. Why here?”

Ingtar turned in his saddle to look back at them. His face looked haggard. “There are always men who see chances for their own advantage in the confusion of war. Fain is one like that. No doubt he thinks to steal the Horn again, from the Dark One this time, and use it for his own profit.”

“The Father of Lies never lays simple plans,” Verin said. “It may be that he wants Fain to bring the Horn here for some reason known only in Shayol Ghul.”

Masema came galloping from ahead, through the mud and the steady rain. “There is another village ahead, my Lord,” he said as he pulled in beside Ingtar. His eyes only swept past Rand, but they tightened, and he did not look at Rand again. “Just as Verin Sedai said. Only it’s empty, my Lord. No villagers, no Seanchan, nobody at all. The houses all look sound, though, except for two or three that ... well, they aren’t there anymore, my Lord.”

Ingtar raised his hand and signalled for a trot.

The village Masema had found covered the slopes of a hill, with a paved square at the top around a circle of stone walls. The houses were of stone, all steep-roofed and few more than a single story. Three that had been larger, along one side of the square, were only heaps of blackened rubble; shattered chunks of stone and roof beams lay scattered across the square. A few shutters banged when the wind gusted.

Ingtar dismounted in front of the only large building still standing. The creaking sign above its door bore a woman juggling stars, but no name; rain came off the corners in two steady drizzles. Verin hurried inside while Ingtar spoke. “Uno, search every house. If there is anyone left, perhaps they can tell us what happened here, and maybe a little more about these Seanchan. And if there’s any food, bring that, too. And blankets.” Uno nodded and began telling off men. Ingtar turned to Hurin “What do you smell? Did Fain come through here?”

Hurin, rubbing his nose, shook his head. “Not him, my Lord, and not the Trollocs, neither. Whoever did that left a stench, though.” He pointed to the wreckage that had been houses. “It was killing, my Lord. There were people in there.”

“Seanchan,” Ingtar growled. “Let’s get inside. Ragan, find some sort of stable for the horses.”

Verin already had fires going in both of the big fireplaces, at either end of the common room, and was warming her hands at one, her sodden cloak spread out on one of the tables dotting the tiled floor. She had found a few candles, too, now burning on a table stuck in their own tallow. Emptiness and quiet, except for the occasional grumble of thunder, added to the flickering shadows to give the place a cavernous feel. Rand tossed his equally wet cloak and coat on a table and joined her. Only Loial seemed more interested in checking his books than in warming himself.

“We will never find the Horn of Valere this way,” Ingtar said. “Two days since we ... since we arrived here”—he shuddered and scrubbed a hand through his hair; Rand wondered what the Shienaran had seen in his other lives—“another three, at least, to Falme, and we have not found so much as a hair of Fain or Darkfriends. There are scores of villages in this country. He could have gone to any of them or taken a ship to anywhere by now. If he was ever here.”

“He was here,” Verin said calmly, “and he went to Falme.”

“And he’s still here,” Rand said.  _ Waiting for me. Please, Light, he’s still waiting _ .

“Hurin still hasn’t caught a whiff of him,” Ingtar said. The sniffer shrugged as if he felt himself at fault for the failure. “Why would he choose Falme? If those villagers are to be believed, Falme is held by these Seanchan. I would give my best hound to know who they are, and where they came from.”

“Who they are is not important to us.” Verin knelt and unfastened her saddlebags, pulling out dry clothes. “At least we have rooms in which to change our clothes, though it will do us little good unless the weather changes. Ingtar, it may well be that what the villagers told us is right, that they are the descendants of Artur Hawkwing’s armies come back. What matters is that Padan Fain has gone to Falme. The writings in the dungeon at Fal Dara—”

“—never mentioned Fain. Forgive me, Aes Sedai, but that could have been a trick as easily as dark prophecy. I can’t believe even Trollocs would be stupid enough to tell us everything they were going to do before they did it.”

She twisted to look up at him. “And what do you mean to do, if you will not take my advice?”

“I mean to have the Horn of Valere,” Ingtar said firmly. “Forgive me, but I have to trust my own senses before some words scrawled by a Trolloc ...”

“A Myrddraal, surely,” Verin murmured, but he did not even pause.

“... or a Darkfriend seeming to betray himself out of his own mouth. I mean to quarter the ground until Hurin smells a trail or we find Fain in the flesh. I must have the Horn, Verin Sedai. I must!”

“That isn’t the way,” Hurin said softly. “Not ‘must.’ What happens, happens.” No-one paid him any mind.

“We all must,” Verin murmured, peering into her saddlebags, “yet some things may be even more important than that.”

She did not say more, but Rand grimaced. He longed to get away from her and her prods and hints.  _ I am not the Dragon Reborn. Light, but I wish I could just get away from Aes Sedai completely _ . “Ingtar, I think I’m riding on to Falme. Fain is there—I’m sure he is—and if I don’t come soon, he—he will do something to hurt Emond’s Field.”

“You can’t know that,” Ingtar said with a bitter laugh. “Darkfriends lie as naturally as they breathe.”

“I will go wherever you go, Rand,” Loial said. He had finished making sure the books were dry and was taking off his sodden coat. “But I don’t see where a few more days will change anything one way or another, now. Try being a little less hasty for once.”

“It doesn’t matter to me whether we go to Falme now, later, or never,” Perrin said with a shrug, “but if Fain really is threatening Emond’s Field ... well, then we need to stop him. Hurin is the best way to find him.”

“I can find him, Lord Rand,” Hurin put in. “Let me get one sniff of him, and I’ll take you right to him. There’s never anything else left a trail like his.”

“You must make your own choice, Rand,” Verin said carefully, “but remember that Falme is held by invaders about whom we still know next to nothing. If you go to Falme alone, you may find yourself a prisoner, or worse, and that will serve nothing. I am sure whatever choice you make will be the right one.”

“ _ Ta’veren _ ,” Loial rumbled. Rand threw up his hands.

Uno came in from the square, shaking rain off his cloak.

“Not a flaming soul to be found, my Lord. Looks to me like they ran like striped pigs. Livestock’s all gone, and there isn’t a bloody cart or wagon left, either. Half the houses are stripped to the flaming floors. I’ll wager my next month’s pay you could follow them by the bloody furniture they tossed on the side of the road when they realized it was only weighing down their flaming wagons.”

“What about clothes?” Ingtar asked.

Uno blinked his one eye in surprise. “Just a few bits and pieces, my Lord. Mainly what they didn’t think was bloody worth taking with them.”

“They will have to do. Hurin, I mean to dress you and a few more as local people, as many as we can manage, so you won’t stand out. I want you to swing wide, north and south, until you cross the trail.” More soldiers were coming in, and they all gathered around Ingtar and Hurin to listen. Areku did not look Rand’s way, and he did not try to get her attention.

Rand leaned his hands on the mantel over the fireplace and stared into the flames. “There isn’t much time,” he said. “I feel ... something ... pulling me to Falme, and there isn’t much time.” He saw Verin watching him, and added harshly, “Not that. It’s Fain I have to find. It has nothing to do with ... that.”

Verin nodded. “The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, and we are all woven into the Pattern. Fain has been here weeks before us, perhaps months. A few more days will make little difference in whatever is going to happen.”

“I’m going to get some sleep,” he muttered, picking up his saddlebags. “They can’t have carried off all the beds.”

Upstairs, he did find beds, but only a few still had mattresses, and those so lumpy he thought it might be more comfortable to sleep on the floor. Finally he chose a bed where the mattress simply sagged in the middle. There was nothing else in the room except one wooden chair and a table with a rickety leg.

He took off his wet things, putting on a dry shirt and breeches before lying down, since there were no sheets or blankets, and propped his sword beside the head of the bed. Wryly, he thought that the only thing dry he had for a coverlet was the Dragon’s banner; he left it safely buckled inside the saddlebags.

Rain drummed on the roof, and thunder growled overhead, and now and again a lightning flash lit the windows. Shivering, he rolled this way and that on the mattress, seeking some comfortable way to lie, wondering if the banner would not do for a blanket after all, wondering if he should ride on alone to Falme.

He rolled to his other side, and Ba’alzamon was standing beside the chair with the pure white length of the Dragon’s banner in his hands. The room seemed darker there, as if Ba’alzamon stood on the edge of a cloud of oily black smoke. Rand’s saddlebags lay by his feet, buckles undone, flap thrown back where the banner had been hidden.

Ba’alzamon turned his pitch-black eyes to Rand. “You have returned. Did you enjoy your foray along the Lines of If? Do you see now the futility of it all? The time comes closer, Lews Therin. A thousand threads draw tight, and soon you will be tied and trapped, set to a course you cannot change. Madness. Death. Before you die, will you once more kill everything you love?”

Rand glanced at the door, but he made no move except to sit up on the side of the bed. What good would it do to run? His throat felt like sand. “I am not the Dragon, Forsaken!” he said hoarsely.

The darkness behind Ba’alzamon, or Ishamael as he was also known, roiled as he laughed. “You belittle yourself. I know you too well. I have faced you a thousand times. A thousand times a thousand. I know you to your miserable soul, Lews Therin Kinslayer.”

“What do you want?” Rand demanded angrily. “This is no dream for you to twist. I will not serve you. I will not do anything that you want. I’ll die first!”

“Spare me your histrionics, I did not come here for your body. But tell me, was death so much to your liking that you now lust for it? How many times did you die while you were missing from this world? How many times do you think you have died across the span of the Ages, fool, and how much has death availed you? But there is another way. A way to break this cycle of death and rebirth. This time will be different. This time the Wheel of Time will be broken and the world remade in the image of the Shadow. This time your death will be forever! Join me and I will free you from life’s chains!”

Rand hardly realized that he was on his feet. The void had surrounded him,  _ saidin _ was there, and the One Power flowed into him. He hurled it at Ba’alzamon, hurled the pure One Power, the force that turned the Wheel of Time, a force that could make seas burn and eat mountains. “You are mad,” he shouted. “Stay away from me!”

Ba’alzamon took half a step back, holding the banner clutched before him and the darkness seemed to cloak him in shadow. In the Shadow. The Power sank into that black mist and vanished, soaked up like water on parched sand.

Rand drew on  _ saidin _ , pulled for more, and still more. His flesh seemed so cold it must shatter at a touch; it burned as if it must boil away. His bones felt on the point of crisping to cold crystal ash. He did not care; it was like drinking life itself.

“Fool!” Ba’alzamon roared. “You will destroy yourself!”

_ Emond’s Field _ . The thought floated somewhere beyond the consuming flood.  _ Fain. The Horn. I can’t die yet _ .

He was not sure how he did it, but suddenly the Power was gone, and  _ saidin _ , and the void. Shuddering uncontrollably, he fell to his knees beside the bed, arms wrapped around himself in a vain effort to stop their twitching.

“That is better, Lews Therin.” Ba’alzamon tossed the banner to the floor and put his hands on the chair back; wisps of smoke rose from between his fingers. The shadow no longer encompassed him. “There is your banner, Kinslayer. Much good will it do you. A thousand strings laid over a thousand years have drawn you here. Ten thousand woven throughout the Ages tie you like a sheep for slaughter. The Wheel itself holds you prisoner to your fate Age after Age. But I can set you free. You cowering cur, I alone in the entire world can teach you how to wield the Power. I alone can stop it killing you before you have a chance to go mad. I alone can stop the madness. You have served me before. Serve me again, Lews Therin, one last time.”

“My name,” Rand forced between chattering teeth, “is Rand al’Thor.” His shivering forced him to squeeze his eyes shut, and when he opened them again, he was alone.

The next morning Ingtar sent out his disguised scouts. Rand remained with the party, yet with each step of their careful journey west something tugged at him, urging speed. The time they had lost in the Portal Stone weighed heavily on his thoughts.  _ Light, let me not be too late! _


	32. The Price of Passage

CHAPTER 60: The Price of Passage

It tasted like the sea, salty and bitter and frightening. But where the sea was cold, the thing in her mouth was burning hot. Min squeezed her eyes shut and tried to pretend she was somewhere else. Fingers tangled in her not-short-enough hair, holding her head still as the thing began moving in and out of her. It was what she had agreed to, the only way to save Elayne ... but she hated it.

She could not recall how long she had been on the  _ Spray _ , but so far no Seanchan vessels had pursued them. As soon as Min had figured out how to open the  _ a’dam _ she had known she had no choice but to agree to Captain Domon’s terms. Elayne had resisted the  _ sul’dam _ ’s torture bravely, but how long could she hold out? How long until the next ship bound for the invaders far-away homeland departed, taking Elayne away from her forever? She had gone to Domon and agreed to his demands the very next day, and smuggled her friend out of the  _ damane _ quarters and down to the docks just as soon as Domon was ready to leave Falme.

Min gagged on the sailor’s cock as it poked the back of her throat. She had to concentrate to avoid doing that, though even when she failed to stop it the men rarely paused in their thrusting. The man using her mouth now certainly did not. She didn’t know his name, didn’t want to know any of their names. Even their faces seemed to blur together in her mind.

Domon himself never used her like this. The Illianer captain seemed to feel guilty over what he had demanded of Min. On the few occasions she caught sight of him he set his heavy jaw and avoided looking directly at her.

Min herself was finding it difficult to meet Elayne’s eye, when she visited the cabin they shared. It had been easy to persuade Elayne not to come out. She was a fugitive from the Seanchan after all, and they were still in Seanchan-controlled waters. But she had noticed the changes in Min, and expressed worry over them.

Most of Min’s time was spent here in the crew quarters where sailors coming off their unpaid shifts could find her. Find her and use her however they pleased.

“Do you be nearly done yet, Gelb?” someone said in a rough Illian accent. “I want my turn.”

“She isn’t going anywhere,” snapped the man fucking Min’s mouth.

“Fortune prick me, burn this,” muttered the other one. Footsteps sounded on the deck behind her and strong, callused hands seized Min by the hips. She was pulled up into a standing position, bent over with her bare ass exposed. The man in her mouth did not let go of his grip on her hair as the second one matter-of-factly thrust his cock into her pussy. It was an awkward pose, bent over like that while they used her mouth and her sex both and her breasts swayed beneath her, but Min endured it in silence.

She was completely naked, there in that dim, cramped space. Her body was displayed for anyone who wanted to look. And look they did. When Domon had first delivered his gift to the crew, along with his promise that all the gold that was owed them would be paid just as soon as he could return to Illian and draw funds from his bank, the men had looked dubious. Min had returned to wearing her boy’s clothes for the escape and she was no Elayne, to stun all who saw her. She remembered how they had laughed when the first sailors had stripped her bare. One had crowed aloud that the “captain’s gift” had been hiding some nice surprises under that disguise.

Min had stood naked before all those jeering strangers, red-faced and fighting back tears. She had tried not to shiver when the first one squeezed her breast; tried and failed. When he had pushed her back onto his bed and pulled her legs apart she had not resisted, though her stomach roiled.

But when the first man was done soiling her with his gunk and he realised how she had bled, he and his friends had laughed in surprise. That was when the tears came.

The sailors had gotten angry at her after that. Now they did not speak to her at all. Just pushed her down, or rolled her over, using her as though she were a thing and not a person. She thought she could understand a little of what Elayne had gone though now, when being treated like a  _ damane _ .

The two sailors fucked her roughly. The one in her mouth did not let go of his grip when he came to orgasm, leaving Min with no choice but to choke down his seed along with her own bile. When he had finished his business he let her go and she gasped for breath, sticky white fluid dribbling over her lips and down her chin. It wasn’t long after that the second sailor began spurting inside her. Again? Perhaps. She quite deliberately did not try to keep track of who all had come in her, or how many times. She hoped she did not get pregnant, for there was no herbalist anywhere nearby and not likely to be any for some time.

When he had finished using her, the second sailor gave Min a complimentary smack on her bottom. After all she had been through a little thing like that should not have been enough to redden her cheeks, but somehow it did.

Once her hips were freed of the sailor’s grip, Min sank to the deck and stared listlessly at the planking. There was a gap between shifts, when one group of sailors was asleep and the others hard at work, in which Min could retire to her quarters and rest. Or get as much rest as she could while trying to keep up a brave face for Elayne. That time was nearly approaching. If a new sailor did not approach her soon she would wipe herself ... not clean, she would never be clean again, but wipe herself off, get dressed and go to Elayne.

The constant sway of the ship had become familiar to her, enough that she could notice when the captain shifted course. She had noticed the course changes while the men were using her, but not thought much of them. When raised voices sounded from the decks above, however, a sudden alarm gripped Min’s heart. Some of the sailors rose from their bunks, muttering, and made their way towards the narrow stairs. Min went to gather her clothes, ears pricked for some sign of trouble.

She need not have strained herself. “Everyone above decks for inspection. Now!” shouted a voice. A voice in an accent she had come to know and hate. Min squeezed her eyes shut.  _ No, no, no. Not after all this. We are so close! _

“Make me wait, oathbreakers, and you answer for it with your lives,” added the Seanchan.

All around her sailors scrambled from their bunks and made their way towards the stairs. One man seized Min by the elbow and pulled her along with him.

“My clothes,” she protested.

“No time,” he grunted. “I will no lose my head for your false modesty, slut.” She tried to pull free, but he was strong and his fellows crowded about her. Min was swept upstairs and onto the deck of the  _ Spray _ , naked as the day she was born.

Domon was arguing with an armoured Seanchan officer when she arrived. The bearded captain kept his face smooth, but there was no disguising the nervous sweat that dampened his brow.

Min and the second shift joined the other sailors on deck, herded together under the watchful eye of armed Seanchan soldiers. She saw a second ship, much bigger than the  _ Spray _ and latched to her with grappling hooks. In the Seanchan ship’s rigging, hard-eyed archers peered down at their prisoners, ready to fire at the first sign of resistance. It took no more than a glance to tell that the Illianers would not be fighting. Even Domon had tossed his sturdy shortsword aside.

Min stood shivering before her captors, trying to cover her breasts and crotch with her hands, and prayed that somehow, however impossible it might seem, Elayne would escape.

“Aha!” crowed a woman. “And what would this one be doing here, if this is not the ship we seek?” Choking despair overwhelmed Min at the sound of Renna’s voice. The  _ sul’dam _ seized Min’s wrist in a cruel grip and yanked her out of the gathered throng.

Merciless eyes fastened upon her, Renna’s, the Seanchan soldiers’, even the Illianers who had so delighted in using her body. Min cast her gaze about in desperation and found no friends among the gathered crowd. Bayle Domon’s fist trembled at his side. He ground his teeth and turned his back to the spectacle.

“Where is Tuli?” Renna demanded angrily. “And why are you naked?” She wrinkled her face in disgust. “Actually, don’t bother answering the last question. Given your tendency to consort with animals I expect you have been pleasuring yourself with the entire crew of this benighted vessel.”

A surprised whistle sounded among the Illianer prisoners, and a chorus of snickers soon followed. Min cringed in humiliation at a misunderstanding that had too much of truth to it for her to phrase an immediate response.

A knowing look crossed Renna’s face. “As I thought,” she sneered. “Tuli. Where is she? This is the final time I will ask.”

Min swallowed her fear. “I don’t know,” she lied. “I haven’t seen Elayne since we left Falme.”

Renna stared at her for a long moment, her face still and stern. “So be it,” she said at last. She made a small gesture and two Seanchan soldiers came forward to seize Min.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Min protested uselessly. “Let me go!” The men paid no mind to her cries. One kicked at the back of her knee and sent her to the deck, the other pushed her forwards until she was on her hands and knees. “I ... no more ... not again ... Someone, please help me ... I don’t want this ... Rand ...” Min sobbed, thrashing uselessly against the ropes that bound her, as the tears she’d struggled to repress for so long finally spilled down her cheeks.

Somehow a  _ torm _ had gotten on the ship. Why the Seanchan had brought the huge creature with them she could not say, but a man in the brown and black uniform of one of their handlers, the  _ morat’torm _ , led the creature forward at Renna’s beckoning.

“ _ Torm _ are dangerous even to their handlers during mating season,” Renna announced. “So there is a way that even a degenerate traitor such as you can serve the empire.”

“No! Please no!” Min shouted.

“You had your chance,” the  _ sul’dam _ said.

The  _ morat’torm _ led his monstrous mount forward and introduced it to its own mount. The scaled cat, as big as a horse, watched Min with a cruel, feral intelligence in its three eyes and bared its long, sharp fangs in what looked horrifyingly like a smile. The Seanchan soldiers who had been holding Min down scrambled back and as soon as she felt their grips ease she tried to escape, but by then it was too late. The  _ torm _ ’s massive bulk pressed her down onto the deck, its clawed paws coming to rest on her slender shoulders, flattening her breasts against the rough planks of the ship’s deck. The best was on her. And soon, shockingly, painfully soon, it was  _ in _ her, too.

Min screamed as she felt the creatures giant cock ram into her too-small pussy. She had never felt such pain before. She knew at once that the thing was too big for her, and fear of rape turned immediately to fear of death. Her screams rose in pitch as it pushed forward, impaling her. She felt something tear inside and suddenly blood filled her mouth. As the monster pounded savagely into her and more of her blood spilled onto the deck before her horrified eyes, Min was glad that she had never been able to see her own future. She didn’t know how she could have lived knowing it would end like this. The  _ torm’s _ needle-sharp teeth closed upon her neck as it fucked the dying girl, and she screamed one last time  ...

Min’s scream went on and on. She thrashed against the bonds that held her arms and legs, trying to win free, knowing it was impossible. She knocked a mug to the floor and shattered it against the deck. She forced her eyes open hoping to the last that somehow at least Elayne would escape the Seanchan’s notice. Or better yet, that Rand, or someone, anyone, would save her from her fate.

In the darkness of the alcove in which she slept, it took a look moment for Min to realise that no monster assailed her. Or to realise that nothing held her down except the scratchy, tangled, sweat-soaked, blankets she had been given. Her heart was pounding so hard it was almost deafening. She sat up in her bed in Falme with a shuddering moan and lowered her face to her hands. Min sobbed quietly, relief mixed with horror.

“It was just a nightmare,” she whispered to herself. “Just a nightmare. It never happened. Those men ... and that thing ...” She trembled violently. She had never been prone to nightmares in the past, not often at least, but this one had been particularly vivid.

She sat up in her bed for a long time as she fought to steady herself and quiet her tears. It was only once she had regained a measure of lucidity that she realised why her imagination had turned against her so violently. That evening, before bed, she had snuck into the  _ damane _ quarters once again to fiddle with the spare  _ a’dam _ , only this time she had finally managed to get one to open. The metal of the collar might look seamless but there was no Power involved in opening and closing it, just a trick, as she had hoped. If you held it at the right spot, pushed inwards and twisted the collar just right, it sprang open.

She could remove Elayne’s collar. That had been the main obstacle to getting her out of the  _ damane _ quarters. The disguises she had hidden away weeks ago would hopefully be enough to get them through the city to the docks and there ... there Min’s nightmare awaited.

Alone in the dark, Min squeezed her eyes shut and her hands into fists. It was the only way she could think of to get Elayne out of Falmerden and away from the Seanchan, no matter how much the price of their passage frightened and disgusted her.

_ Tomorrow _ , she told herself.  _ Tomorrow I will go to Domon and tell him I agree to his price. As soon as he can arrange for the Seanchan to let him sail, I’ll smuggle Elayne out of the prison and onto the  _ Spray _. And then, Light be merciful, I’ll hope the days to come won’t be as bad as I fear _ . She held her head in her hands. There was, in Min’s estimation, as much chance of that last as there was of Rand appearing out of thin air with an army come to save them both.


	33. The Storm Breaks

CHAPTER 62: The Storm Breaks

It took a great deal of effort to move an army from one end of a nation to the other, especially at the onset of winter. Men, women and horses all required abundant supplies if they were to survive the march, much less the battle that waited at its end. For all his reluctance to move from his fortress, this General Surtir managed the preparations with swift efficiency. When the army left Calranell Nynaeve thought it resembled nothing so much as a giant metal snake, weaving its way along the roads west. the gathered more and more men along the way until it almost seemed that there was a city on the march, a city made of armoured men with long spears walking in lockstep, bowmen in leather jerkins, mounted warriors and lords with colourful sigils painted on their shields. And Nynaeve, riding in their midst with worry, hope, disgust and fear warring in her heart.

Nynaeve rode at the King’s side, which was supposedly an honour for him, seeing as she was an Aes Sedai. Except Nynaeve was not an Aes Sedai, and didn’t much like them either. So she politely told him to stop bothering her and rode along in grim silence, chewing over her worries about her friends.

The King’s son rode with them and chattered incessantly, despite Nynaeve’s hints. His pestering questions soured Nynaeve’s mood further. How was she to listen to the wind when this boy insisted on making so much wind of his own?

General Surtir sent out scouts by the dozen as the Falmeran army advanced along the beaten road to Falme beneath a grey and stormy sky. He gave them strict orders to report back hourly and whenever a group was even slightly late he called an immediate halt and had the army ready itself for battle. Usually the scouts returned soon after, having simply lost track of the time, but once, as they passed within sight of the Knotwood, a group failed to report in. Syoman deployed his pikemen and sent out a squad of lightly armoured cavalry to see what had become of the scouts. Half of them returned and their leader carried a strange, plumed helmet in his hands, one that looked more than a little like a giant insect’s head. He reported a skirmish with an enemy patrol, and no survivors among the invaders. Nynaeve couldn’t help but feel guilty. Those men might not have been here if she hadn’t urged the Falmerans to march.

“How many men are in this army?” she had muttered then.

Prince Alasdair had looked nonplussed. “I don’t know the exact number. I’m not sure even Syoman does. Less than ten thousand, more than nine.”

“Helpful,” she said flatly. Ten thousand lives in danger of being snuffed out.

Grey-bearded Lord Wulffe spoke then. “It is always hard to be certain of the numbers when a force of this size is marshalled, Nynaeve Sedai. But I promise we will be enough. With your help we will put an end to these invaders’ crimes, and free the young Queen.” His voice surprised her still, sounding much too polished and dignified to have come from such a burly man.

Alasdair looked like a puppy beside him. He was about the same age as Mat, had similar colouring and she was starting to suspect had a similar attitude, too. “Knowing Evelin, we may actually be freeing the Seanchan from her,” he quipped. Nynaeve gave him a stern stare to set him straight and his smile shrivelled right up.

All along the road to Falme she could hear the storm rumbling above. Even when the clouds cleared and the thin winter sunlight broke through she could still feel that storm, looming on the horizon.

She had been worried they would not have enough to feed the army but the Falmerans had supply caches hidden all throughout their land, remnants of their past wars with Valreis, and Syoman seemed to know the locations of all of them. As they marched he sent men to gather everything they could carry from the caches.

On one occasion the men returned with more than simply dried meat and grain.

Whatever his scouts told him brought Syoman out in person to question the ragged man they had found. Apparently he had lost his home and, for want of anywhere else to go, had thought to spend the winter in the hidden and well-stocked cave where he had been found. But it wasn’t that news that twisted the general’s face into a snarl. Curious, Kaelan and Nynaeve went to join him.

“You claim the Brylans were responsible for the slaughter of House Elstan? What proof have you of this?”

“Only my word, General,” said the man, whose hair might have been yellow if you washed it a few dozen times, and who gave his name as Duncan Gilmor. “I was one of Lady Eleanor’s guards, on sentry duty at the outer gates of her estate. We let Lord Timoth and his men in, as the lady had summoned him. He came out again the next day, him and his men, but none of ours rode with him, as had been planned. We’d heard noises in the night, Eric and me, but hadn’t wanted to abandon our posts ... Except when Timoth came out alone, I knew something was wrong. We ran and hid and only went back to the fort after he was long gone. There was no-one left alive in there, not even little Lord Oren.”

Nynaeve gasped. “Monstrous.”

Kaelan was outraged. “I can scarcely believe it. How can he imagine he will get away with such treachery? As soon as we are done here I will turn my army back and bring Lord Timoth to justice, I swear it.”

“The snake was probably bought and paid for by Valreis,” snarled Syoman. “He and who knows how many others. The mysterious deaths these past months could not be the work of one man. Cauthrien! See that this man gets some warm food and a clean uniform. We will need every true Falmeran we can muster in the battles to come.”

There were battles along the march, or skirmishes as Wulffe called them. The Falmerans won each and it was not long before the Seanchan patrols began fleeing at the sight of their banners. Soon they stopped seeing the enemy at all, though not long after several large winged shapes began shadowing the army, far beyond range of their bows. Nynaeve watched the creatures worriedly, recalling Anna’s description of the Draghkar that had hunted her and the others. Syoman studied them, too, until, as they were camped near the outskirts of the Knotwood one night, he gathered a large force under the command of the dark-skinned Lord Jervin and sent them into the forest for purpose unknown. Nynaeve never saw them again.

On they rode, while Alasdair harassed her with tales of his land, and the storm rumbled just beyond sight. Nynaeve had long known that men were incurable gossips, but this prince was even worse than the rest of them. He was in sore need of having his ears boxed.

A week into the march, after Alasdair had ignored one too many of her subtle rebukes, she snapped at him. “Would you be quiet! I’m trying to concentrate. Go bother the King or something.”

He had better self control than she had given him credit for. He didn’t show his shock at her ill temper at all. “But I thought we were getting along so well,” he sighed morosely. “I was even going to name one of my children after you. The grumpy one.”

Nynaeve scowled at his back as he trotted off to join his father at the head of the column.

They were perhaps a day’s march from Falme when Syoman commanded the army to halt several hours before sunset and set camp around a high hill that was crowned with a copse of dark leatherleafs. It was in the midst of those trees that he met with the King and the Prince, their lords and officers, and Nynaeve “Sedai” to discuss the coming battle.

Syoman had dressed plainly at Calranell but he wore heavy, unadorned steel armour in the field. His helmet rested on the table before him. “The enemy has had more than enough time to study the terrain,” he began. “We will assume they know how to use it.”

“Then given the reports of their numbers they are unlikely to use the city walls as their first line of defence,” said Wulffe, looking like an old grey bear in all those furs.

“It would suit us well if these invaders left the city,” Kaelan said. He was armoured, too, though his plate was so richly gilded you might have thought it was made of gold. “A few brave men, moving swiftly, might be able to get inside and free my daughter.”

“I doubt they will leave the city completely undefended, your Grace,” the uniformed Alix said in an inflectionless tone. Her breastplate made it hard to tell at a glance that she was a woman.

Syoman was more curt. “No. Our every move is being watched by their scouts, and they will have enough men stationed in Falme to hold the walls against anything short of a siege. They will certainly be able to hold long enough for their main force to crush us against the walls if we were fool enough to approach Falme. We must meet them in the field.”

“On a field of their choosing ...” sighed Wulffe.

Syoman smiled toothily. “But a field which we know well.”

“Couldn’t a few of us sneak inside to find Evelin?” asked Alasdair, whose armour was lighter than his father’s and much less elaborate.

Syoman shook his head. “They will likely have shut the gates as soon as they heard we were near. It’s what I would do. And there is no way to approach the city walls without being seen by the sentries.”

He pointed at the maps assembled on the folding table before him. “Their command post, unless I overestimate them, will be atop the Mazira Hills to the north. The view they provide of the surrounding countryside is unmatched and the slopes leading up to their summit start near the main road. If we were to engage them there we would be at a severe disadvantage.”

“I assume you have a plan,” said the King.

Syoman pointed at the map again. “Firstly we will clear the woods to the south of any ambushers that wait there. Ralir, Corthrate; your skirmishers will have work to do.” The men in question nodded. “Once that is done our main force will advance, keeping as far to the south of the road as the terrain will allow. We will come under fire from the enemy’s archers atop the Hills but that is unavoidable. We will have shields on our northern flank to absorb the brunt of the attack. Once we taken the woods we must fortify them swiftly. The Seanchan, seeing our refusal to engage them on the Maziras will have to come down to meet us. Some of them at least. They will try to bait us back into range of the hills, and we will try to bait them into range of our defences as well. Meanwhile we will inch our way closer to Falme, maintaining a strong defensive line in the process. Once we are close enough to threaten the capital, their general will have no choice but to come down in force to meet us. Then the real work begins.”

“Excellent,” said Kaelan, standing tall, his golden hair stirring in the breeze. “When these Shadow-spawned invaders dare to venture down from their sanctuary they will find stern Falmeran steel awaiting them. I will lead the defenders.”

Syoman blinked. “You risk too much, Kaelan. The Seanchan are too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines.”

“Syoman my decision is final. I will stand at the front of this assault.”

“Very brave of you,” Nynaeve allowed, grudgingly.

“I will fight with you, father,” said the prince.

“No!” snapped Syoman, and for once he and the King were in agreement.

“I would like nothing more than to have you at my side, Alasdair, but you must remain with the centre of the army, to command in my absence.”

The gathered officers, the common-born ones at least, exchanged blank looks. Syoman glowered and the King hastily added, “In spirit at least. Obviously General Surtir will be providing your strategy.”

Alix spoke up. “Sirs. What about the leashed Aes Sedai that fight for the Seanchan?”

That quietened everyone at the table. The thought of facing the One Power in battle was enough to give even the most experienced soldiers pause.

“An excellent question, Captain,” said Wulffe, he turned his creased, fatherly face to Nynaeve. “Is there anything you can do to help us with that, Nynaeve Sedai?”

Nynaeve took her braid in hand. She had fought the Seanchan’s channelers before, when she escaped Liandrin’s treachery. She didn’t know for sure if she had killed any of them, but she feared she had.  _ Burn them! I’m a healer, not a killer _ . The prospect of fighting again sickened her, but if that was what she had to do to save her friends, then she would choke down her bile and do it. Except ...

“I can stop some of them,” she said grimly. “Several at once even. But, depending on how many they have, that might not be enough ...”

Syoman was as grim-faced as she. “Archers then. If we rain enough arrows on them at least a few must find their target. I see little other option, other than retreating to Calranell.”

“And that is no option at all,” said Kaelan firmly. “Not while Evelin is in danger.”

“Very well,” Syoman allowed. “Double the watch. We are deep in enemy territory now. I want no assassins slipping into camp during the night.”

They dispersed to their tasks. In Nynaeve’s case that would involve worrying herself sick while she tried for the umpteenth time to grasp  _ saidar _ at will. She would need it soon.

“... will be your undoing, Kaelan,” she heard the general scoff as he departed, with the King walking at his side. “We must attend to reality.”

“Fine. Speak your strategy. We draw the Seanchan into charging our lines ... and then?”

“You will raise the red banner,” said Syoman, sounding exasperated. “Signalling my men to charge the flanks.”

“Of course, of course.”

Nynaeve slept fitfully that night, and rose before dawn’s first light. She found herself pacing the camp. Some slept soundly but she was far from the only woman, or man, to find rest evading them. Cookfires were already burning as men prepared for an early breakfast. She wondered how many it would find it their last meal. Prince Alasdair found her at the edge of the camp, frowning towards the sea with her braid in hand, hoping that Min and Elayne were alive somewhere in the Seanchan-held city, that they had come to any harm, and that they would not be caught in the middle of the coming battle.

“I guess even Aes Sedai get nervous,” he said softly. “Is it strange that that gladdens me?”

“I’m not nervous. I’m worried,” Nynaeve clarified sternly. “You should be, too. You’d best not do anything silly out there, or prince or no I’ll tan your hide for you.”

Alasdair sighed. “As you say, Aes Sedai.”

She felt a momentary alarm when he jumped towards her; the alarm turned quickly to anger and  _ saidar _ filled her with its terrible warmth, bringing the world into focus around her, brightening the colours and sharpening the sounds. It was getting more and more difficult to tell herself that she hated the Power.

She was about to give Alasdair the shock of his life when he stepped in front of her with his hand on his sword hilt. “Who goes there?” he called into the pre-dawn gloom.

Nynaeve turned her attention to the world outside their camp and with  _ saidar _ enhancing her sense she saw the scout approach. Short and stocky, she was dressed like a Falmeran not a Seanchan and carried a short double-curved bow in her hands. With  _ saidar _ in her Nynaeve’s vision was so sharp she could even see the freckles on the girl’s face. She shivered and the storm rumbled louder than ever.

“A friend,” the scout called in answer to Alasdair’s challenge. “The fox trots.”

Alasdair relaxed at the nonsense phrase. Nynaeve frowned momentarily before realising it was some kind of coded greeting. She could see how that would be needed in a group this size, so people might know who was friendly and who was not. It still set her aback sometimes, how massive everything outside the Theren was. Back home she would have known on sight the names and business of everyone she met. She hoped she would be able to go back there someday.

“Do you have a report?” asked Alasdair tightly, interrupting Nynaeve’s musing.

“I do, Prince Alasdair,” the girl said, saluting. “Scout Debatthien, honour to serve.” She looked to be about Rand’s age, too young to be part of an army. She hoped he was safe, wherever he was now; but deep down she knew that he would never be safe again. None of them would. The girl spoke the words Nynaeve knew she would speak. “It’s started sir. The advanced troops have engaged the enemy.” Thunder sounded all around them as the storm she had been waiting for finally broke. Nynaeve was the only one present who did not flinch at the sound.  _ I’m almost there Elayne _ .


	34. Sul'dam

CHAPTER 63:  _ Sul’dam _

Rand had never seen the sea before. He thought it surprisingly angry looking. The white-capped waves rose high and smashed hard against the huge bay that Falme presided over, and there was a seemingly ever-present rumbling noise that the local people paid not the slightest heed to. He supposed it was all in what you were used to, and tried to pretend that he, too, was used to such things.  _ I’m glad I got to see the ocean, before the end _ . That end was fast approaching now. All he had to do was find Padan Fain somewhere in this city, put an end to his threats, and give the Horn to Ingtar. Then ... Then he would do what he must.

Rand could see ships anchored down in the bay; tall, square-looking ships with high masts, made small by the distance. The breeze from the sea brought the smell of breakfast cook fires to Rand’s nose, and tried to flap at his moth-eaten cloak, but he held it closed with one hand as Red neared the city. There had not been a coat to fit him in the clothes they had found, and he thought it best to keep the fine silver embroidery on his black sleeves and the herons on his collar hidden. The Seanchan attitude toward conquered people carrying weapons might not extend to those with heron-mark swords, either.

The first shadows of morning stretched out ahead of him. He could just see Hurin riding through the city gate, past wagon yards and horse lots. Only one or two men moved among the lines of merchant wagons, and they wore the long aprons of wheelwrights or blacksmiths. Ingtar had been the first to go in and was already out of sight, though with his hood pulled forward to hide his topknot Rand would have had difficulty spotting him in the crowd even had he been nearby. Perrin and Tomas followed behind Rand at spaced intervals. He did not look back to check on them. There was not supposed to be anything to connect them; five men coming into Falme at an early hour, but not together.

Rand reached the main gate into Falme just as a mounted group of Seanchan were leaving. He was glad of the ocean then, for if he had not been concentrating on schooling his face to indifference he might have gaped at the sight of the riders. There were no more than a few dozen of them, and they wore the black and red armour he had seen while travelling through the Portal Stone; one, a handsome red-haired and brown-eyed man only a few inches shorter than Rand, still carried the heron-marked blade that he had once shoved though Rand’s chest.  _ No, not my chest. Not really _ , he reminded himself as he struggled not to stare at the man. The Seanchan rode out of the city with an air of supreme confidence. Other soldiers were rallying, too, perhaps to meet that army he kept hearing about, but none of them looked hurried or concerned. Instead they moved with calm, practiced efficiency.

He passed through the gate unchallenged. On the other side, horse lots surrounded him, horses already crowding the fences, waiting to be fed. Hurin put his head out from between two stables, their doors still closed and barred, saw Rand and motioned to him before ducking back. Rand turned the bay stallion that way.

Hurin stood holding his horse by the reins. He had on one of the long vests instead of his coat, and despite the heavy cloak that hid his short sword and sword-breaker, he shivered with the cold. “Lord Ingtar’s back there,” he said, nodding down the narrow passage. “He says we’ll leave the horses here and go the rest of the way on foot.” As Rand dismounted, the sniffer added, “Fain went right down that street, Lord Rand. I can almost smell it from here.”

Rand led Red down the way to where Ingtar had already tied his own horse behind the stable. The Shienaran did not look very much a lord in a dirty fleece coat with holes worn through the leather in several places, and his sword looked odd belted over it. His eyes had a feverish intensity.

Tying Red alongside Ingtar’s stallion, Rand hesitated over his saddlebags. He had not been able to leave the banner behind. He did not think any of the soldiers would have gone into the bags, but he could not say the same for Verin, nor predict what she would do if she found the banner. Still, it made him uneasy to have it with him. He decided to leave the saddlebags tied behind his saddle. But his quiver and longbow he took with him. Perhaps if he left the bow unstrung the Seanchan would not take alarm.

Perrin joined them, hefting his own bow and concealing the axe with his too-short cloak. He had not been there long before Hurin came with Tomas. The Warder had left his colour-shifting cloak behind but couldn’t disguise the predatory grace with which he walked. All told, Rand thought they looked like villainous beggars, but they had made it inside the city at least. “Now,” Ingtar said. “Let us see what we see.”

They strolled out to the dirt street as if they had no particular destination in mind, talking among themselves, and ambled past the wagon yards onto sloping cobblestone streets. Rand was not sure what he himself said, much less anyone else. Ingtar’s plan had been for them to look like any other group of men walking together, but there were all too few people out-of-doors. Five men made a crowd on those cold morning streets.

They walked in a bunch, but it was Hurin who led them, sniffing the air and turning up this street and down that. The rest turned when he did, as if that was what they had intended all along. No matter where they went in the city, they could still see the tall tower he had spotted on his approach.

“He’s crisscrossed this town,” Hurin muttered, grimacing. “His smell is everywhere, and it stinks so, it’s hard to tell old from new. At least I know he’s still here. Some of it cannot be older than a day or two I’m sure. Maybe a week. I am sure,” he added less doubtfully.

Up the street from the harbour came a formation of Seanchan soldiers, a hundred or more in ordered ranks, with an officer at their head in painted armour. They marched with a grim, implacable step. Rand and the others casually turned down a side street. A few more people began to appear, here a fruit peddler setting his wares on tables, there a fellow hurrying along with a big roll of parchments under his arm and a sketch-board slung across his back, a knife-sharpener oiling the shaft of his grinding wheel on its barrow. Two women walked by, headed towards the gate, one with downcast eyes and a silver collar around her neck, the other, in a dress worked with lightning bolts, holding a coiled silver leash.

Rand’s breath caught; it was an effort not to look back at them.

Perrin growled low. “Was that a  _ damane _ ?”

“That is the way they were described,” Ingtar said curtly. “Hurin, are we going to walk every street in this Shadow-cursed city?”

“He’s been everywhere, Lord Ingtar,” Hurin said. “His stench is everywhere.” They had come into an area where the stone houses were three and four stories high, as big as inns.

A pretty and morose-looking girl sat on the stone doorstep of one of the buildings. She wore a plain woollen dress of dark green, longer and of a different cut than that of the locals, with a lower hem and a higher neckline. A Seanchan dress, Rand suspected. He studied at the girl as they approached along the street. Invader she might be but she could have passed for the twin of Min Farshaw, the odd girl he had met back in Baerlon. Invaders should seem less familiar, he somehow felt. He couldn’t help but stare.

She sensed their approach and raised her eyes from the cobblestones. She looked as if she had been crying recently. When she saw Rand her big, nearly black eyes grew even bigger. Her jaw dropped.

One look into her eyes and Rand’s steps came to a jarring stop. She didn’t just look like Min, she  _ was _ Min!

“Rand?” she said incredulously, climbing slowly to her feet.

“This can’t be real,” Rand gasped, wide-eyed and staring. “How can you be here, Min? You should be back in Baerlon, practically on the other side of the continent.”

“It  _ is _ you,” she whispered. “Oh, thank the Light, I thought I ...”—she shook her head fiercely, then continued in a firmer voice—“Never mind. Who else is with you? I need your help, Rand. Elayne needs your help.”

“Elayne?” he asked. “Who’s this Elayne?” He knew a girl named Elayne. She was the Daughter-Heir of Andor. But he couldn’t see any reason that Min would know the same Elayne, and the idea of that sheltered princess being here in Falme was even more ludicrous that Min having somehow hopped across the continent.

She took three quick steps and grabbed hold of his sleeve. “You know. The Dau ...” she darted a quick, worried glance at his companions. “That Elayne. From Caemlyn. You met her, she’s ... our friend.”

He couldn’t help it. He scrubbed his fingers through his hair and shook his head dazedly. “Her!? That’s impossible.”

“Well a lot of things seem impossible to me, but they seem determined to happen anyway,” Min said tartly.

“We don’t have time for this, Rand. Who is this girl?” said Ingtar.

“And who are they?” Min added. Her searching gaze stopped on Perrin and she gave a short nod of recognition. When she noticed his yellow eyes she leaned over to peer more closely and Perrin developed a sudden interest in the ground.

Rand made some hasty introductions, but when he asked Min to explain what she meant about needing help she shook her head.

“Not here, somewhere more private.” She held tight to his sleeve as she led them swiftly down a narrow alley and across a wide street towards a neglected-looking three-storey building. At the house’s side she pushed open a wooden gate and went around back to the weed-choked garden. “The owners are all dead,” she explained. “We should be able to talk here.”

Ingtar’s frustration was palpable. “I have one question for you girl. Do you know where the Horn of Valere is?”

Min eyed him askance. “Um ... no. Why would I? I don’t know where Mosk left his lance either.”

“We found it underneath the Eye of the World,” Rand explained, “Then some Darkfriends stole it and brought it here. But anyway. What were you saying about Elayne? What’s wrong?”

Min’s jaw dropped again. She stared for a moment before giving herself a firm shake. “Right. Of course. But more importantly, Rand, Elayne is here in Falme and the  _ sul’dam _ have her. They put one of those collars on her neck. I could get it off, and I found a ship captain who I think will take us away if we can reach his ship with her—he won’t help unless we make it that far, and I cannot say I blame him—do you have any money by the way? That would help. But yes, I could get her out, except there’s an army coming and the Seanchan are mobilising to fight it so the  _ damane _ quarters are off limits and the guard has been doubled. They are going to take her to the battlefield, Rand, and make her fight the Falmerans. And then they’re going to take her back to Seanchan with them. We need to free her before that happens.”

“We will,” he said dazedly. “Somehow.” His brain was still struggling to cope with the sheer unlikelihood of it all. In the midst of all those other shocks he couldn’t muster any surprise at the revelation that Elayne could channel. “A ship, you say? I hadn’t really thought about how to get out of Falmerden, though the locals all claim the mountain passes have been blockaded by Valreis. We have plenty of horses, but I’m not sure we have money for passage. How much does this man want?”

She looked away. “A lot.”

“There is no need for a ship,” said Ingtar confidently. “The Valreio would not presume to deny us passage with an Aes Sedai in our company. As to this other matter. Think Rand. If we try to free the  _ damane _ we must engage the Seanchan who hold them. How are we to find Fain and the Horn then, with the city risen against us? Free the girl later. The Horn must come first.”

“But we don’t know where the Horn is exactly,” Perrin muttered while still avoiding anyone’s eyes. “Fain’s trail is too muddled. You said yourself; we’re going to have to search the entire city to find him.”

“If that is what it takes, then that is what we must do,” said Ingtar.

“You don’t need me for that,” Rand said. “I’m going to help Min free Elayne.”

Relief seemed to flood through Min’s body. She shuddered and gave him the brightest of grins. “I’m glad you have your priorities right, sheepherder or not.”

“This is folly,” Ingtar groaned. “We’ve come too far to fail now.”

“Folly? Or fate?” They all turned to look at the speaker. Tomas had been hovering near the garden gate, watching the street in his usual quiet way. Now he fixed them all with an unwavering gaze. “As Verin said, when  _ ta’veren _ are involved there is no such thing as coincidence. I gather this girl is from Baerlon. What are the odds that she should find herself all the way out here just in time for our arrival, and with an urgent job to ask of us? Pretty high I would say. Too high to be anything but the Pattern at work. I say we play this out and see where it leads us.”

Hurin nodded silently at the Warder’s words, but he kept his eyes on Ingtar and waited for the Lord’s decision.

He sighed. “You may be right, Tomas Gaidin. It strains credulity. And perhaps somehow this will lead us to the Horn.”

Rand had had no intention of doing anything but helping Min, no matter what the others decided, but he was glad to hear they would be lending their support. “Where is Elayne being held, Min?” he asked.

“In a large building near the Divalaird, on the northern side of the square. I’ll show you.”

Rand studied Min curiously as they made their way west up the sloping streets of Falme. Her hair was a little longer than when they had last met, and the dress was certainly new. From the way she kept kicking the skirts as she walked, he suspected she didn’t feel entirely comfortable in it. Though it did make her look bustier than the loose shirt and heavy coat she had worn in Baerlon. “How do you know Elayne?” he asked wonderingly. “And how did you both end up here?”

Min blushed for some reason and avoided his eyes. “We met in Tar Valon,” she said. “Moiraine had me brought there after The Stag and Lion burnt down. As to how we got here, we came by the Ways.”

Perrin grunted and the others looked at Min appraisingly.

“The Ways are dangerous,” said Rand, frowning. “And a maze. Did you find an Ogier to guide you?”

“No. Li—” Min broke off, glanced Tomas’ way, and touched her tongue nervously to her lips. “We can talk about this some other time, Rand. We should focus on what to do about the Seanchan now.”

They rounded a corner, and Rand saw a score of Seanchan soldiers standing guard in front of the tall gates at the front of the looming grey tower. Their officer’s armour was resplendent in red and black and gold, his helmet gilded and painted to look like a spider’s head. A banner flapped in the wind over the tower; a golden hawk clutching lightning bolts. Two women in lightning-marked dresses stood talking on the doorstep of another building nearby. But it was none of these things that made Rand miss a step; it was the two big, leathery-skinned shapes that crouched among the soldiers.

_ Grolm _ . There was no mistaking those wedge-shaped heads with their three eyes.  _ They can’t be _ .

“Bow!” hissed Min urgently. She bent at the waist until her torso was almost parallel to the ground. “You have to bow when you see a Seanchan, no matter if it’s a soldier or a litter-bearer.”

Rand followed her example, scowling as he did so. “We’ve passed others, and they haven’t said anything to us ...”

“Then you were lucky they have other things to concern themselves with right now,” she said. “Usually they’ll pay you no mind if you bow, and punish you if you don’t.”

The others made their bows in turn before making their way across the square. Their efforts to appear casual were undermined by the way they stared at the strange beasts. Even so the soldiers barely glanced at them. “What in the name of the Light are they?” Perrin asked.

Hurin’s eyes seemed as big as his face. “Lord Rand, they’re ... Those are ...”

“I know. How did they ...? Never mind. It doesn’t matter,” Rand said. After a moment, Hurin nodded.

“We are here for the Horn,” Ingtar said, “not to stare at Seanchan monsters. Concentrate on finding Fain, Hurin.”

“He’s been here a lot.” Hurin scrubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. “The square stinks of layer on layer on layer of him. But still nothing recent.”

“There’s a garden behind the  _ damane _ quarters,” Min said as they reached the other side of the square. “And an alley runs by the garden wall. I was able to climb it earlier.”

Ingtar nodded. “Sometimes men are so busy guarding their front, they neglect their back. Come.” He headed straight for the nearest narrow passage between two of the tall houses. Hurin and Min trotted right after him.

The alley was barely wider than their shoulders, but it ran between high garden walls until it crossed another alley big enough for a pushbarrow or small cart. That was cobblestoned, too, but only the backs of buildings looked down on it, shuttered windows and expanses of stone, and the high back walls of gardens overtopped by nearly leafless branches.

Ingtar led them along that alley until they were behind the building Min had indicated. Taking his steel-backed gauntlets from under his coat, he put them on and leaped up to catch the top of the wall, then pulled himself up enough to peek over. He reported in a low monotone. “Trees. Flower beds. Walks. There isn’t a soul to be—Wait! A guard. One man. He isn’t even wearing his helmet. Count to fifty, then follow me.” He swung a boot to the top of the wall and rolled over inside, disappearing before Rand could say a word.

Rand held his breath. Perrin fingered his axe, and Hurin gripped the hilts of his weapons. Only Tomas and, strangely, Min looked calm. She was staring at them all in an unfocused way. “But there are other ways it could happen,” she whispered, as if to herself. “I shouldn’t assume, that could be dangerous.”

“Fifty.” Hurin was scrambling up and over the wall before the word was well out of his mouth. Perrin and Tomas were right behind him.

Rand hunched down and cupped his hands to offer Min a boost.

“I can climb it myself you know,” she said.

“I believe you,” he responded, but did not move.

“Good.” She placed her shoed foot in his hands and hopped upwards. He lifted her weight easily; she quickly swung over the wall and lowered herself down the other side.

Moments later Rand was crouched on the inside with the rest.

The garden was in the grip of deep autumn, flower beds empty except for a few evergreen shrubs, tree branches nearly bare. The wind stirred dust across the flagstone walks. For a moment Rand could not find Ingtar. Then he saw the Shienaran, flat against the wall of a shed with sword in hand, motioning for them to stay low.

Rand ran in a crouch, more conscious of the windows blankly peering down from the distant house than of his friends running beside him. It was a relief to press himself against the shed beside Ingtar.

“Where is the guard?” Rand whispered.

“Dead,” Ingtar said. “The man was overconfident. He never even tried to raise a cry. I hid his body under one of those bushes. The two standing by the door up ahead may be harder to get past.”

Rand leaned out just far enough to get a peek at the door in question. There were indeed two Seanchan soldiers on watch, armoured but with their helmets tucked under their arms. They seemed to be talking to each other, but at that range Rand could not hear a word.

“Two guards. Two bows,” said Tomas quietly. “But do you lads know how to use them? If you were to miss, or just wing them ...”

“Lord Rand wouldn’t miss,” Hurin said stoutly.

Perrin came forward and crouched near Ingtar’s legs. He took a quick glance around the corner. “We can make those shots,” he whispered. “Light help me, but it would even be easy.”

Grim-faced, Perrin moved back and set to stringing his bow. Rand did the same and tried to keep his face as composed as Perrin’s, not wanting to embarrass himself in front of the others.

“You’ll need to loose in unison,” Ingtar advised as he slid back to make room for the archers. “They must go down together.”

Perrin grunted and trudged up to take the Shienaran’s former place. He already had an arrow nocked.

“Rand?” asked Perrin, when he did not immediately join him.

“I know. Just give me a minute.” He needed the void for this. “I’ve never killed a man before,” he confessed. “Trollocs, but never humans.” Min’s eyes were full of pity. He looked away.

“You do what you must. No matter how ugly,” said Tomas.

“I know. I will.”  _ For Elayne _ . Rand fed his queasiness into the flame along with all his other misgivings and finally stepped up to stand beside Perrin, with his bow at the ready. “I’ll take the one on our right,” he said in a preternaturally calm voice.

Perrin nodded. “One, then two, then step, then loose?” he said quietly.

“Understood. Whenever you’re ready, call the shot.”

“One,” Perrin said and Rand tensed to move.

“Two.”

Rand counted out the rest silently in his head. On three he took a long stride out of the concealment of the garden shed, making room for Perrin to ease around the corner. He sighted on his target and drew the arrow’s fletching to his cheek. On four the Thereners loosed their arrows in tandem. On five the Seanchan soldiers began slumping to the ground, with matched shafts sprouting from the ruins of their eyes.

Rand stepped back into cover. “It’s done,” he said in that too-calm voice.

Ingtar clapped him on the shoulder as he glanced out. “Good shooting. Let’s move.”

The Shienaran lord dashed forwards, with Hurin and Tomas close on his heels. Min approached Rand as though she wanted to say something, but he dodged back around the corner of the shed before she could speak and ran after the others.

There was a covered walkway at the back of the building where Elayne was being held, supported by a multitude of tall arches carved from grey stone. Rand darted into its shelter and hoped no-one had happened to be looking out of the windows as the intruders approached. He could see only one door into the building proper and the two Seanchan lay dead just outside it. He avoided looking at them too closely, even when Tomas and Ingtar grabbed them by the heels and dragged them into a slightly more concealed position. Rand didn’t think hiding them would do any good, their blood left a long and foul trail along the ground.  _ Blood I spilled _ .

“We are almost there.” Ingtar sounded as if he were speaking to himself, too. “Almost there. Come.”

Rand slung his bow and drew his sword as they started towards the back door. He was aware of Hurin unlimbering his short-bladed sword and notched sword-breaker, and Perrin reluctantly drawing his axe from the loop on his belt. The knife Min held seemed a small thing in comparison, but she gripped it determinedly and the mocking smile she’d worn throughout their first encounter was nowhere to be seen.

No-one challenged them when Tomas eased the door open and led the way inside. The hallway within was narrow. A half-open door to their right smelled like a kitchen. Several people were moving about in that room; there was an indistinguishable sound of voices, and occasionally the soft clatter of a pot lid.

Tomas motioned Min forward and she hastened to his side, pointing the way. They crept by the kitchen door, with Rand keeping a watchful eye on the narrow opening until they were around the next corner.

Min pointed to a set of narrow, winding stairs. They climbed all the way to the fourth floor. The ceilings were low, there, the halls empty and silent except for the soft sounds of weeping. Weeping seemed to fit the air of the chilly halls. She led them down another narrow hallway. Rand thought their footsteps sounded far too loud on the wooden floor, but so far no-one was drawn to the sound. He could imagine it all too well though, someone stepping into the hall to see five slinking men with weapons in their hands, shouting an alarm ...

If he hadn’t been so on edge he might not have heard the sound of footsteps on the stairwell they had just left. Even from farther down the hallway Tomas heard, too, he whipped his head around and gestured to Rand and Perrin intently. They eased back towards the stairwell as quietly as they could. Rand held his sword one-handed, ready to stab downwards when they reached the top of the stairs, but when he jumped out to confront the climbing enemy he found only a small, yellow-haired woman looking up at him in shock.

She wore a blue and red dress panelled with lightning bolts and her shock quickly turned to anger. Rand did not strike, of course. How could he? She was a woman.

The  _ sul’dam _ opened her mouth to shout the alarm but Perrin surged forward with a speed surprising in such a bulky man. He clamped one big hand over her mouth and wrapped his free arm around her, lifting her easily.

“We won’t hurt you,” the burly youth said, looking the  _ sul’dam _ straight in the eyes. “But you must be quiet.”

The woman’s lips might have been bound, but her hands were free and one quickly shot forth towards Perrin’s neck, the dagger it held gleaming in the early morning light. The point was mere inches from his friend’s neck when Rand’s hand snapped around the  _ sul’dam _ ’s wrist. He held her firmly, his grip tight enough to bruise, as he and Perrin exchanged wide-eyed looks.

Ingtar took the knife from their prisoner’s hand. “Bring her. And keep her quiet,” he said.

Bring her they did, though she kicked and thrashed the whole way down the corridor. Perrin had to move slowly and carefully to prevent her flailing feet from impacting with the walls and raising a clamour.

“Seta Zarbey,” Min said when they caught up to her. “She’s nearly as bad as Renna. Nearly.”

The Seanchan woman glared contemptuously at Min over Perrin’s hand.

“Are we close?” Rand asked.

“I hope so,” Min whispered. She opened a door that was indistinguishable from the dozen others they had passed and went in, and they followed. The room beyond had been divided into smaller rooms by roughly-made wooden walls, with a narrow hallway running to a window. Rand crowded after Min as she hurried to the last door on the right and pushed in.

Min let out a relived sigh when she saw the room’s occupant.

A slender girl, her hair a mass of red-gold curls, sat at a small table with her head resting on her folded arms, wearing a dress of drabbest grey. Even before she looked up, Rand knew that it really was Elayne. Despite everything part of him had not truly believed she could be here.  _ Impossibility piled upon impossibility. Either I’ve gone mad already or the world decided to race me there. _

A ribbon of shining metal ran from the silver collar around Elayne’s neck to a bracelet hanging on a peg on the wall. It glimmered when she looked up to see who had intruded in her cell. She was thinner than he remembered. Her jewels and finery had all been taken from her and her eyes were haunted but she was still stunningly beautiful. Her bright blue eyes widened at the sight of them. Elayne gave a sudden giggle, and pressed her hands to her mouth to stifle it. The tiny room was more than crowded with the three of them in it.

“I’ve had this dream before,” Elayne said in a quavering voice, “It was sweet then, too. Can you two stay a little longer this time?”

“This is no dream,” Min said softly. “Hold still.”

She stood behind Elayne’s chair and brushed the Daughter-Heir’s curls aside. Min touched the collar around Elayne’s neck oh so carefully and ran her fingers along the seamless metal until she found whatever she was looking for. She did something with her hands that Rand could not follow and the collar sprang open and fell away from Elayne’s throat. With an expression of wonder, Elayne touched her neck.

Sudden tears filled Elayne’s eyes. “Oh, Min. I can never, ever repay this.”

Min’s irreverent smile returned to light up her face once more. “You’ll never, ever have to,” she said with an easy shrug.

“This truly isn’t a dream?” Elayne looked at Rand. “In my dreams you brought an army with you. An army led by Lord Gareth. Thousands of brave Andormen in gleaming armour atop tall stallions.”

Rand felt strangely embarrassed. “I’m afraid there’s just the five of us right now, my Lady. But there are about twenty more camped outside the city. We just need to get to them.”

“If you’d rather wait for a gleaming army though ...” Min said dryly.

“Oh, no. No, you are both beautiful, the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. Where did you come from? How did you find me?” Elayne blinked and gave her head a small shake before continuing in a higher-pitched voice. “And why am I still in this room?” She shot to her feet and kicked the  _ a’dam _ at her feet aside, then went to gave it a few stamps for good measure. “We should leave this place immediately, before the  _ sul’dam _ find us.” She made a fist. “Though I promise you this: they will not find me so easily taken this time.”

She marched out of her cell and into the room where the rest of their companions awaited. When she came face to face with the captured  _ sul’dam _ her lips tightened in fury. “You! The tables have turned, Seta. How fortuitous.”

The other woman’s shoulders shook, and her eyes crinkled above Perrin’s restraining hand. It took Rand a moment to realize the  _ sul’dam _ was laughing.

Elayne raised her chin. “Oh yes, it is quite the joke. Shall I deliver the punchline? A moment then, I shall be right back.”

“Does she know where the Horn of Valere is?” asked Ingtar.

“I haven’t had the chance to ask her yet,” Rand said absently.

Perrin and the rest could only stare at Elayne as she turned and marched straight back into her cell. Rand didn’t think it was her beauty alone that had them at a loss for words.

She returned swiftly, holding the collar of the  _ a’dam _ in her hands. The long, silvery leash trailed behind her as she advanced on Seta. Perrin looked confused but he held his place as Elayne reached out and wrapped the collar around Seta’s neck.

It locked in place with a small click but whatever Elayne had hoped to accomplish she was doomed to disappointment. The woman simply glanced at the leash trailing from her neck to Elayne’s wrist, then glared up at her contemptuously.

“It doesn’t work that way,” Min said, confusion plain on her face.

“Not at first,” Elayne said, sounding suddenly like a judge ready to pronounce sentence.

She did something, Rand knew not what, and suddenly the  _ sul’dam _ ’s eyes bulged out of her head, the prisoner gave a cry that Perrin’s hand only partially muffled. Fanning her hands around her as if trying to ward off something, she thrashed in the air in a vain effort to escape.

Perrin looked extremely uncomfortable and his grip on the Seanchan woman weakened. “Whatever you’re doing, please stop it,” he said, looking Elayne in the eyes.

Elayne’s chin remained high and her voice remained cold. “You may release her if you wish, goodman. I expect she will not be calling for the guards.”

Perrin let Seta go and the  _ sul’dam _ sagged, weeping.

Min’s mouth was hanging open. “What did you ... do to her?”

“Significantly less than she has done to the so-called  _ damane _ . Or should I say, the  _ other _ so-called  _ damane _ .”

“What are you talking about?” Min said.

“I have thought about it a great deal,” Elayne said. “Thinking was all I could do when they left me alone up here.  _ Sul’dam _ claim they develop an affinity after a few years. Most of them can tell when a woman is channelling whether they’re leashed to her or not. I wasn’t certain, but this proves it. A  _ sul’dam _ would die before admitting the truth, even if she knew, and they never train the ability, so they cannot do anything with it unless linked to a  _ damane _ , but they are channelers as surely as I am.”

Seta groaned through her teeth, shaking her head in violent denial. But just as Elayne had predicated, the Seanchan woman held her silence.

Hurin looked confused. “I thought the Seanchan put leashes on any woman who can channel. My lady.”

“You must call me Elayne, my good man. I will not stand on formality with any who numbered among my saviours. As to the Seanchan, they leash all of those they can find but those they can find are like myself, or the false Dragons who occasionally plague our lands. We were born with it, ready to channel whether anyone taught us or not. But there are others in whom the ability to channel sleeps, ready to be awoken if they are tested and taught, and in whom it would lay dormant forever if none were to teach them. Here on Valgarda many of these girls may go to the White Tower to have their potential awoken but what of those who live in Seanchan? Not just any woman can become a Leash Holder.” She filled the term with scorn. “Renna thought she was being friendly telling me about it. It is apparently a feastday in Seanchan villages when the  _ sul’dam _ come to test the girls. They want to find any like me, and leash them, but they let all the others put on a bracelet to see if they can feel what the poor woman in the collar feels. Those who can are taken away to be trained as  _ sul’dam _ . Latent channelers, no different from the poor women they torture so.”

Seta was moaning under her breath. “No. No. No.” Over and over again.

Elayne removed the bracelet from her wrist and dropped it to the floor. She rubbed her fingers on the skirts of her grey dress as though disgusted to have even touched the thing. “If it is not so, Seta,  _ marath’damane _ . Then take off that collar. Or walk from this room.”

The Seanchan took hold of the silver band around her throat and tugged at it. Once and only once. Then she sagged to the ground and began dry-heaving.

“You—you do not mean to leave me here with it,” Seta gasped. “You cannot. Tie me. Gag me so I cannot give an alarm. Please!” She darted frantic glances at Rand and the other watching men in their borrowed clothes. “You have come to free the oathbreaker, yes? The so-called Princess Evelin. She is to be executed as her mother was, by slow impalement, as soon as her traitorous army draws within sight of the city walls. The High Lord wishes to show them the price of rebellion, and to crush their spirits. I can tell you how to free her if you take this thing off me.”

Rand shook his head slowly. He’d never even heard of this Evelin before now. The fate that Seta described sounded horrible though. He couldn’t imagine anyone short of a Forsaken, and perhaps not even them, deserving to die like that.  _ It’s not my concern _ , he told himself.  _ I have enough problems to deal with right now. Burn me, it’s not my concern _ .

Ingtar surged forward and gripped the Seanchan woman by her chin. He knelt down to look her straight in the eyes, his expression intent. “You wish to win your freedom woman? Then tell me this. Where is the Horn of Valere?”

Elayne’s brows rose and she looked a question at Rand. He could only shrug. It didn’t seem a good time to explain all that had happened.

Seta shook her head and Rand thought she would deny all knowledge of the Horn, but her expression shifted quickly to one of desperation and words spilled from her lips. “The High Lord Turak has it in his personal collection. He plans to send it back to Seandar with the next ship, along with his report to the Empress, may she live forever, and this  _ damane _ .” She glanced at Elayne, then quickly looked away.

“That will not happen,” Elayne vowed.

“No,” hissed Ingtar, standing tall. “No it will not.”

“I will not report you,” Seta babbled. “I swear it. Only take this from my neck. I have gold. Take it. I swear, I will never tell anyone. Please take—it—off! If anyone sees it on me ...” Seta’s eyes rolled down to stare at the leash, then squeezed shut. “Please?” she whispered.

“If anyone sees it on you then they will have to face the truth,” declared Elayne, unmoved. “Let your whole empire see that  _ sul’dam _ and  _ damane _ are one and the same. I will not remove it.”

Seta sobbed and Ingtar turned away. “I made no promises,” he said, and marched grimly towards the door.

It opened before he could reach it and a second  _ sul’dam _ stepped into the room. “What is going on here? An audience?” She stared at Seta, hands on hips. “I never gave permission for anyone else to link with my pet, Tuli.” She shot a glance at Elayne—noticed for the first time that Elayne had no collar around her neck—and her eyes grew as big as saucers. She never had a chance to yell.

Before anyone else could move, the new  _ sul’dam _ was yanked off her feet and flew towards Elayne. Literally flew, if only for a moment. Everyone save Tomas gaped at the sight. The woman was hovering a foot away from Elayne’s outstretched hand when the Daughter-Heir’s enraged expression became tinged with strain and she allowed her feet to touch the ground. Invisible bonds seemed to hold her still though and no sound escaped her lips.

Elayne’s colour was high and she was breathing fast. “Renna, you ... you monster! You will never call me by that name again! Do you hear me? Never! I should kill you for what you’ve done.”

“She deserves it.” Min was staring grimly at the  _ sul’dam _ .

“You would kill someone who kidnapped and tortured people, wouldn’t you Rand?” Elayne said, almost shrilly. She seemed to be steeling herself.

Rand shifted his feet uncomfortably. He stared at the  _ sul’dam _ . Save for her strange dress and her unbraided hair this Renna looked just like a typical Theren woman. She wore a fixed stare of horror. “You can’t kill women,” he said in a low whisper. “It’s wrong.” Perrin and the two Shienarans nodded silent agreement.

“Is that what they taught you in the Theren?” Elayne asked. Some of the rage seemed to leak out of her. “I suppose there is sense in that. But ...” She fell silent and just stood there, opening and closing her hands.

“Well I don’t see any sense in it at all,” Min growled. Then she stepped past Elayne and stuck her knife right into Renna’s heart.

“Burn me,” cursed Perrin. Seta covered her mouth with her hand. Rand took an unsteady step backwards. Elayne stared at her tormenter, watching as the life quickly drained from the  _ sul’dam _ ’s body. When it was done, Elayne let Renna slump to the floor. The Daughter-Heir looked stricken.  _ Killers _ , thought Rand sadly.  _ We’re all becoming killers _ . He felt sorrier for Min than he did for Renna; she was staring wide-eyed at the body and shaking visibly.

“I see no injustice here,” Elayne said, sounding suddenly tired. “But we should leave. I would like to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Wait without please. I cannot be seen in public wearing this dress, any Seanchan we meet would know me for a channeler.” She drew her red-gold hair out of the way. “Min, help me, please.” As Min began fumbling with the buttons down the back of Elayne’s dress, the five men swiftly exited the room.

_ A plain wooden attic _ , Rand found himself thinking. It wasn’t much of a stage, but he had a feeling that what had happened in that room would have as much consequence as anything that had ever happened in a queen’s throne room.


	35. Blademaster

CHAPTER 64: Blademaster

They left the  _ damane _ quarters the same way they had entered. Despite having accomplished what they went there to accomplish, it was a solemn group that scaled the back wall of the compound. Elayne had looked in on all of the  _ damane _ who remained and decided that none of them were safe to free. They were Seanchan natives and had been firmly beaten into submission years ago, she claimed, if they released them now they were more likely to attack their would-be liberators than thank them, or run to warn the other Seanchan of the escape attempt. No-one had wanted to leave the women in their collars, but they bowed to Elayne’s superior experience.

The girl in question wore Seta’s blue and red dress now, though it did not fit her properly and she had had to leave it half unbuttoned to make room for her larger bust. Hopefully any Seanchan who saw them would think her a  _ sul’dam _ , if a dishevelled-looking one. The angry little tugs she occasionally gave her dress might have been vanity over its poor fit, but Rand thought it more likely to be a sign of her distaste at being required to wear the uniform of her former captors.

As they waited for the others to finish clearing the wall, Rand watched Min concernedly.

She noticed his look. “Do you think I did the right thing?” she whispered.

His thoughts and beliefs tripped over each in a conflicted jumble. The best answer he could come up with was, “If one of those soldiers had abused Elayne, or you, I would have stabbed him.”

Her smile was a brittle thing. “And if one of those  _ sul’dam _ had been guarding the door to Elayne’s, or your, jail I would have shot her.”

Rand grimaced. He bent to offer her a boost once more. “Thanks,” he whispered as she hopped up and onto the wall.

When Elayne came to take Min’s example she gave Rand a dimpled smile. “Another wall and another garden. You have strange hobbies, Rand. But I would not complain of them.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he just lifted her up to where Min waited, perched atop the brick wall and ready to help the Daughter-Heir over to the other side.

Rand leapt, climbed and vaulted the wall easily. Though they had started climbing first, when he dropped down to the other side Elayne and Min were still waiting up top. He eyed them quizzically.

Min wore an expressional of exaggerated patience. “Catch her, dummy.”

He glanced at the four men standing in the alley around him. Hurin was the slightest of them but even he had a wiry strength to his limbs. Any one of them could have helped Elayne down.  _ Why do I have to do it? _ A chorus of shrugs was all the answer they gave. He gave a small shrug of his own and went to stand beneath Elayne, arms open and ready.

She launched herself from the wall as though she intended to land on her bottom rather than her feet. He’d seen it done before and managed to catch her with an arm under her knees and another around her shoulders. She barely weighed a thing.

“I must thank you once again, Rand,” Elayne said, watching him from beneath lowered lashes. Rand held firm and refused to let himself think of the Daughter-Heir in any improper ways.

“You’re welcome, Lady Elayne,” he said tightly.

“Oh, do call me Elayne.”

“As you say, my lady.”

Her vexed sigh was drowned out by the thump of Min’s shoes hitting the cobblestones. “No-one rush to catch me though,” she groused. “Don’t worry, that’s fine.”

“I offered,” Perrin muttered. “But you both ignored me.” Min ignored his complaints, too, preferring to give Rand a flat stare. As though she had not been the one to urge him to catch Elayne in the first place! He wondered if this was another one of her jokes.

Grumbling, Perrin set off down the alley after Ingtar and Hurin.

Rand set Elayne on her feet and she straightened her dress. “Now we just need to get you both out of the city,” he said as they followed the others. “Verin, she’s an Aes Sedai, and some Shienaran soldiers are waiting nearby. You should be safe there. Or safer at least.”

“What of the matter your Shienaran friend spoke of? Would it be terribly naive of me to think he is not in fact mad, and the item he speaks of actually exists?”

“It exists,” Rand said. “I’ve seen it myself.”

“Incredible,” Elayne said excitedly. “Then we absolutely cannot allow the Seanchan to keep it. If you are going to recover it from them then I shall be accompanying you.”

“Me too,” Min said.

“That’s crazy,” Rand objected. “What if they kill you? Or capture you again? The two of you need to get out of the city.”

“How rude!” Elayne gasped, as Min muttered angrily. “I am perfectly sane, I assure you. And so is Min. This is a fight that could have consequence for all right-thinking people in Valgarda. We will not sit idle. Besides, in case you have not gathered I have been training to become an Aes Sedai since we last met. Do not underestimate the potency of the One Power, Rand. You may be shocked to see what can be accomplished by one who wields it.”

Rand eyed her askance.  _ Not as shocked as you think ... _ he might have said, but wisely held his tongue. He wondered what they would do if they found out he, too, could channel. Recoil in horror at the least, he expected. And perhaps even try to kill him.

When they arrived back at the street they found Ingtar staring across the square ahead, studying the Divalaird intently. The officer was no longer watching them, but there were still at least twenty soldiers in front of the building. And a pair of  _ grolm _ .

“We can’t go through that,” said Perrin.

Rand was careful not to look at Elayne and Min. “We can be back to Verin by midday and have a plan made before nightfall,” he said.

“I do not mean to wait for Verin,” Ingtar said, “and neither will I wait for night. I’ve waited too long already. I mean to have the Horn in my hands before the sun sets again.”

“We might not have gotten this far without the Falmeran army drawing so many of the Seanchan out of the city. And who knows how long that distraction will last,” said Tomas. He turned to Min. “Do you know any other ways in?”

She shook her head. “No. I didn’t exactly try to map it but I’ve only ever seen the one gate, and all the windows that are low enough to reach are so thin that no-one would be able to squeeze through them.”

“I could make a new door,” said Elayne. “If we could find a place where the walls are thin enough.” They all turned to stare at her.

“Yes,” Ingtar breathed, an excited glimmer in his dark eyes. “Yes that could work. An Aes Sedai could clear the path. We should break it on the western side, where the tower faces the ocean. There won’t be any guards to see or hear there. Come! We are going to take back the Horn now. Now! Min, find us a discreet path through the city.”

He led them off at a rush. Min had to trot to keep up. Rand exchanged looks with Perrin—his curly-haired friend gave a resigned shrug—and they followed, too. Tomas ghosted along behind.

With Min’s direction it didn’t take for them to reach their destination.

The Aryth Ocean seemed to stretch forever. And the wind that blew across it cut straight through Rand’s fancy coat and borrowed cloak when they reached the Divalaird’s far side.

Elayne looked up at the narrow windows Min had described earlier. “There will be rooms on the other side of those. Probably. I just hope there are no  _ sul’dam _ and  _ damane _ lurking nearby.” She closed her eyes in concentration and suddenly her expression shifted. She looked both relaxed and intent. “Stand ready,” she said and raised a hand towards the heavy grey stone walls of the fort. Stone that a moment before had seemed impermeable now slumped into sand. It began slowly, just a small patch on the wall that streamed away, piling up at Elayne’s side, but soon that hole had grown large enough to fit a man’s head. More and more sand flowed from the wall, until the hole became a doorway, though a doorway into nothing. As thick as the walls were, Elayne had cleared enough sand to bury the average Theren man by the time they saw light on the other side of her new door.

“Excellent. My deepest thanks, Aes Sedai. Honour to serve,” Ingtar said with a grin.

Elayne smiled back. “You flatter me, Lord Ingtar. In truth I am only a Novice by the Tower’s standards. But I shall admit to being rather pleased with the results. After you.”

Ingtar hefted his sword and led the way through the tunnel into the Divalaird. The others followed, armed and ready every one. The cavernous room that awaited them on the other side—a pantry, with no Seanchan or Falmeran in sight as their luck would have it—gave Rand pause. He hesitated between his sword and his bow, until the sight of the wide hallway outside the pantry door decided him. With that much space he should be able to get off a shot or two before anyone got close. He left Tam’s sword in its scabbard, unlimbered his bow and strung an arrow.

Rand kept to the middle of the halls as they crept through the Divalaird, senses straining for any sign of the occupants.

The furnishings in the hallways were sparse, and seemed all curves. Here and there a tapestry hung on a wall, or a folding screen stood against it, each painted with a few birds on branches, or a flower or two. A river flowed across one screen, but aside from rippling water and narrow strips of riverbank, the rest of it was blank.

A slender young woman with dark hair came out of a door ahead of them, carrying a tray with one cup. They all froze. She turned the other way without looking in their direction. Rand’s eyes widened. Her long white robe was all but transparent. She vanished around another corner.

“Did you see that?” Hurin said hoarsely. “You could see right through—”

Ingtar clapped a hand over Hurin’s mouth and whispered, “Keep your mind on why we are here. Now find it. Find the Horn for me.”

“We may already have done so,” Elayne whispered. She and Min had been creeping along the edges of the halls, bent over slightly and near hugging each other. “A single cup, Lord Ingtar. And a scandalously-dressed servant to fetch it. Whoever it was meant for is of high rank.”

Ingtar’s gaze fixed on the big pair of sliding doors from which the young woman had emerged. Carved handholds were their only ornamentation. “You may be right, Lady Elayne.”

They gathered outside the door. Rand was glad that there had been no sign of guards so far, but that didn’t soothe his frayed nerves. Ingtar looked at Hurin; the sniffer slid the doors open, and Ingtar leaped through with his sword ready and Tomas at his side. There was no-one there. Rand and the others hurried inside, and Hurin quickly closed the doors behind them.

The room was twice the size of the village green back home. Painted screens hid all the walls and any other doors, and veiled the light coming through the narrow windows. At one end stood a tall, circular cabinet. At the other was a small table, the lone chair on the carpet turned to face it. Rand heard Ingtar gasp, but he only felt like heaving a sigh of relief. The curling golden Horn of Valere sat on a stand on the table.

“It’s here!” cried Hurin.

“Not so loud,” Perrin said with a wince. “We still have to get out of here yet.” His hands were busy on the haft of his axe; they seemed to want to be holding something else.

“The Horn of Valere.” There was sheer awe in Ingtar’s voice. He touched the Horn hesitantly tracing a finger along the silver script inlaid around the bell and mouthing the translation, then pulled his hand back with a shiver of excitement. “It is. By the Light, it is! I am saved.”

“Hurin,” Rand whispered. “Is Fain here?”

The sniffer shook his head. “He’s been here, Lord Rand. But not for several weeks, I’d say.”

Rand winced. If the Horn was still here and Fain had not come to this room in weeks, then where was he? He feared he knew the answer. “Burn me, I tried to come in time.”

Elayne tilted her head as though she were listening to distant music. A small frown grew between her fair brows. “We aren’t alone,” she said, with sudden urgency. “There’s a channeler nearby!”

As if her words had been enough to shake the ground, the folding screens around the far side of the room began toppling to the ground. Behind them stood armed and armoured Seanchan, their faces hidden behind those strange helmets; two, five, ten. Behind the men, near the circular cabinet knelt a grey-robed and dull-eyed woman of middle years; the silvery leash around her neck held by a scowling woman who looked a bit like a meaner, not-as-pretty Nynaeve. A final screen thudded to the carpet and from the corner that it had hidden emerged a bear of all things; a huge, hairless bear that studied the intruders with an awareness that was more than animal.

Every one of Rand’s companions braced themselves and raised their weapons. Elayne glared daggers at the  _ sul’dam _ .

From behind, the soft sound of the doors sliding in their tracks heralded the arrival of another two soldiers. Perrin spun to face them, axe raised and teeth bared.

There had been a doorway in the southern wall, hidden behind a screen close to where the thing that was not quite a bear lounged. From that doorway there now came a slurring voice.

“So! You are not who I expected.”

For a brief moment, Rand stared. The tall man with the shaven head who emerged from the hidden room wore a long, trailing blue robe, and his fingernails were so long that Rand wondered if he could handle anything. The two men standing obsequiously behind him had only half their dark hair shaved, the rest hanging in a dark braid down each man’s right cheek. One of them cradled a sheathed sword in his arms.

“You are in the presence of the High Lord Turak,” the man who carried the sword began, staring at Rand and the others angrily, but a brief motion of a finger with a blue-lacquered nail cut him short. The other servant stepped forward with a bow and began undoing Turak’s robe.

“I suspected it would be the man who calls himself Fain,” the shaven-headed man said calmly. “I have been suspicious of him since Huan died so mysteriously. And he has always coveted the Horn.” He held out his arms for the servant to remove his robe. Despite his soft, almost-singing voice, hard muscles roped his arms and smooth chest, which was bare to a blue sash holding wide, white trousers that seemed made of hundreds of pleats. He sounded uninterested, and indifferent to the blades in their hands. “And now to find strangers attempting to steal from my collection. It will please me to kill one or two of you for disturbing my morning. Those who survive will tell me of who you are and why you came.” He stretched out a hand without looking—the man with the scabbarded sword laid the hilt in the hand—and drew the heavy, curved blade. “I would not have the Horn damaged.”

Turak gave no other signal, but one of the soldiers stalked across the room and reached for the Horn. Rand did not know whether he should laugh, or not. The man wore armour, but he seemed as oblivious to Ingtar’s raised sword as Turak was to the arrow that Rand still held ready.

Ingtar put an end to the bizarre scene. As the Seanchan reached out his hands, the Shienaran’s blade slashed up and across his throat. Unfolding the Fan. Such a simple move, yet it was enough to kill the fully armoured and presumably trained soldier. The man hopped backwards and actually looked surprised as his lifeblood began flowing over his breastplate.

Ingtar looked as confused as Rand felt. “We are no easy meat,” he said softly. Suddenly he leaped over the corpse, toward the rest of the soldiers. “Shinowa!” he cried. “Follow me!” Hurin leaped after him with a blade in either hand, and the Seanchan ran wordlessly to meet them.

Rand loosed two arrows before the Seanchan got close enough that he felt the need to toss his bow aside, detach the encumbering quiver from his belt, and yank Tam’s sword from its scabbard. If the soldiers he shot had imagined their armour would stop an arrow fired by a Theren longbow at this range they were given a rude, and very brief, awakening.

The  _ sul’dam _ had pointed at Elayne as soon as the first drop of blood spilled. Her dull-eyed charge stared at the Daughter-Heir, and though nothing that Rand could see shot across the space between them, strange sparks danced across barely-visible bubbles that had formed around both women. Elayne raised a hand angrily and the  _ damane _ flinched backwards. He didn’t know what, if anything, he could do to help her except pray for her victory. If the  _ damane _ won he didn’t think any of them would be leaving this room alive.

The sounds of steel on steel rose to fill the room.

Against armed and armoured soldiers, while wearing a dress and armed with nothing more than a beltknife, Min looked understandably panicked. Bravely she gripped her knife by the blade and hurled it at one of the Seanchan. The hilt struck the man’s armoured shoulder and bounced harmlessly away. The fellow didn’t seem to notice her attack as he danced into what looked like Cat Dances on the Wall, knocking Rand’s sword aside and then striking for his legs. Rand knew the move well from sparring with Lan. He let the Seanchan win the first part of the clash, then sidestepped and let the Boar Rush Downhill, landing a heavy blow that took the man’s arm off at the elbow. His opponent screamed and blood spurted all over the fine carpet.

Rand expected at any moment to be stabbed from all sides. The Seanchan outnumbered them greatly. But when he spun to check what was happening behind him he found Tomas dancing the forms whilst blood rained around him. The Warder used Shake Dew From the Branch to keep three foes occupied at once, launching lightning quick blows at seemingly random targets. The Seanchan parried, once, twice, thrice, but then one of Tomas’ opponents missed his guard and the Warder laid a smooth and very deadly cut along the side of his neck. Blood fountained from the dying man and he collapsed to the floor, trying vainly to still the flow with his hands. The Seanchan had no time to mourn their fallen, for the plain-faced Warder launched straight into Apple Blossoms in the Wind, the second arc of which claimed the life of his second opponent; the third and final arc drove his remaining man back. Hastily the Seanchan retreated, parrying desperately as the Warder pursued him across the floor.

When Tomas moved aside he revealed Turak to Rand’s eyes. The shaven lord strolled calmly across the room, his huge beast lumbering beside him. His eyes were sharp on Rand’s face; the bodies of his soldiers might as well not have existed. They did not seem to exist for the two servants, either, any more than Rand and his sword existed, or the sounds of fighting. The servants had begun calmly folding Turak’s robe as soon as the High Lord took his sword, and had not looked up even when the first of the soldiers fell; now they knelt beside the door and watched with impassive eyes.

Rand raised his sword.

The bear-like thing’s growl sounded like boulders bouncing downhill. Even while walking on all fours the thing stood as tall as most men, and it was hugely muscled. It advanced on Rand angrily as soon as he offered threat to its master.

Rand knew he would not defeat the thing without using  _ saidin _ and knew, too, that he had to defeat it or all his friends would suffer for his failure, but when he tried to grasp the One Power it slipped away from him like water through splayed fingers. Desperately, he reached again.

“Tyangni. Heel,” said Turak calmly. Immediately the beast sank onto its haunches, though its too-intelligent eyes still followed Rand intently.

Turak raised his blade upright before him and faced Rand proudly. “I suspected it might come to you and me.” Turak spun his blade easily, a full circle one way, then the other, his long-nailed fingers moving delicately on the hilt. His fingernails did not seem to hamper him at all. “You are young. Let us see what is required to earn the heron on this side of the ocean.”

Suddenly Rand saw. Standing tall on Turak’s blade was a heron. With the little training he had, he was face-to-face with a real blademaster. Hastily he tossed the fleece-lined cloak aside, ridding himself of weight and encumbrance. Turak waited.

Back at the doorway, Perrin’s axe had lodged in the armour of one of the soldiers behind them, digging deep into the torso beneath. The Seanchan lay dead, but his vengeful companion had left a deep cut on the wolfbrother’s leg. Spreading blood darkened Perrin’s trousers and he had lost his weapon, yet he did not surrender. Instead he threw himself at the armoured man, taking another cut in the process, this time along his ribs, but getting inside the sword’s reach and bearing the soldier down beneath his muscled bulk. They wrestled desperately along the ground and slowly, slowly Perrin’s huge hands crept towards the Seanchan’s neck.

Rand could not help him now. He had lost the void while trying and failing to grasp  _ saidin _ . Now he sought it once more but before he could finish forming the flame in his mind Turak glided toward him on silent feet. Blade rang on blade like hammer on anvil.

From the first it was clear to Rand that the man was testing him, pushing only hard enough to see what he could do, then pushing a little harder, then just a little harder still. It was quick wrists and quick feet that kept Rand alive as much as skill. Without the void, he was always half a heartbeat behind. The tip of Turak’s heavy sword made a stinging trench just under his left eye. A flap of coat sleeve hung away from his shoulder, the darker for being wet. Under a neat slash beneath his right arm, precise as a tailor’s cut, he could feel warm dampness spreading down his ribs.

There was disappointment on the High Lord’s face. He stepped back with a gesture of disgust. “Where did you find that blade, boy? Or do they here truly award the heron to those no more skilled than you? No matter. Make your peace. It is time to die.” He came on again.

_ I can’t _ , Rand thought stubbornly.  _ Not if it means the others dying with me _ . The void enveloped Rand and everything around him was suddenly clearer.  _ Saidin _ flowed toward him, glowing with the promise of the One Power, but he ignored it. It was no more difficult than ignoring a barbed thorn twisting in his flesh. He refused to be filled with the Power, refused to be one with the male half of the True Source. Instead he became one with the sword in his hands, one with the floor beneath his feet, one with the walls. One with Turak.

He recognized the forms the High Lord used; they were a little different from what he had been taught, but not enough. The Swallow Takes Flight did not fool him, he knocked aside the thrust that followed its slashing feint with a simple Parting the Silk. Rand fell into The Wood Grouse Dances, stepping quickly around the High Lord and trying to anticipate his next attack. Turak, impatient with such a delay, tried to finish him with an aggressive thrust from high guard, Moon on the Water. Rand seized the opening to attack, advancing inside Turak’s guard with Ribbon in the Air, Tam’s blade alive in his hands. The High Lord was forced backwards but used Stones Falling From the Cliff to force Rand to check his attack or lose his head. They moved about the room as in a dance, and their music was steel against steel.

Disappointment and disgust faded from Turak’s dark eyes, replaced by surprise, then concentration. Sweat appeared on the High Lord’s face as he pressed Rand harder. Leaf on the Breeze allowed Rand to parry the entirety of Lightning of Three Prongs, but only barely; Rand took another cut from that, this time on his forearm when the thrust he had been expecting became a quick slash mid-motion.

Rand’s thoughts, and pains, floated outside the void, apart from himself, hardly noticed. It was not enough. He faced a blade-master, and with the void and every ounce of his skill he was barely managing to hold his own. Barely. He had to end it before Turak finally did. Saidin _? No! Sometimes it is necessary to Sheathe the Sword in your own flesh _ . But that would not help Elayne and Min. He had to end it now. A woman’s high-pitched scream echoed throughout the room and the void threatened to collapse once more.  _ Now! Or never! _

Turak’s eyes widened as Rand glided forward. So far he had fought defensively; now he attacked, all out. The Boar Rushes Down the Mountain. Every movement of his blade was an attempt to reach the High Lord; now all Turak could do was retreat and defend, down the length of the room, almost to the door from which he had entered.

In an instant, while Turak still tried to face the Boar, Rand lunged forward and dropped to one knee, blade slashing across, expecting at any moment to feel the cold touch of Turak’s steel on the back of his neck. The River Undercuts the Bank. It was a desperate move, one that he doubted Lan or any other blademaster would have approved of. And perhaps that was why it worked. Rand did not need Turak’s gasp, or the feel of resistance to his cut to know. He heard two thumps and turned his head, knowing what he would see. He looked down the length of his blade, wet and red, to where the High Lord lay, sword tumbled from his limp hand, a dark dampness staining the birds woven in the carpet under his body. Turak’s eyes were still open, but already filmed with death.

The void collapsed. Pain and exhaustion, ignored until now, rushed to fill Rand. He looked around the room frantically, searching for the source of the scream he had heard. Elayne still stood, though she was covering her mouth with her hand and there were unshed tears in her eyes. A spike of dread stabbed Rand’s heart, but when he looked for Min he found her blessedly unhurt; she rushed to Elayne’s side and put and arm around her shoulders. And then they both disappeared behind well over a thousand pounds of killing fury.

The bear-like beast let out a deafening roar and charged at Rand. He saw pain in its eyes, and he saw hate, and he saw his inevitable death. It closed the distance between them in two bounds and raised a heavy paw that was tipped with six sharp claws.

“No!” screamed Elayne. Lightning lanced out from her raised hands and struck the beast before its blow could land. As heavy as the creature was the Power Elayne poured into that strike was enough to lift it from its feet and send it careening past Rand to crash into the wall beyond. The thick stone cracked and dust rained down from the roof of a fortress that had already been old when the nation of Falmerden first came into existence. Turak’s strange pet fell to the ground, and did not rise again.

Rand let out a shaky breath and turned his face away from the creature’s corpse. He gave a start when he saw the two servants still kneeling beside the door. He had forgotten them, and now he did not know what to do about them. Neither man appeared armed.

They never looked at him, or at each other. Instead, they stared silently at the High Lord’s body. They produced daggers from under their robes, and he tightened his grip on the sword, but each man placed the point to his own breast. “From birth to death,” they intoned in unison, “I serve the Blood.” And then they plunged the daggers into their own hearts. They folded forward almost peacefully, heads to the floor as if bowing deeply to their lord.

Rand stared at them in disbelief.  _ Mad _ , he thought.  _ Maybe I will go mad, but they already were _ .

His searching gaze found Perrin leaning by the entrance, bloodied but alive, his red axe now free of the Seanchan’s body and back in his hand. He looked as if he might be sick at any moment. The leather of Ingtar’s coat was stained in more than one place but he still stood and his sword was as red as Perrin’s axe. Hurin’s face had been nicked, and blood had sheeted down his cheek but a closer glance revealed that the cut was not that deep. Tomas didn’t seem to have been touched at all.

“Everyone’s here,” Rand said hoarsely. Relief washed over him. “Everyone’s alive.”

Ingtar grinned fiercely. “I told them we were no easy meat. They should have listened.”

All around them the Seanchan lay dead. No man, beast, or woman of their ambush had survived.

Rand got to his feet. On shaky legs he walked to where Elayne and Min stood, looking down on the fallen  _ sul’dam _ . And the  _ damane _ laying beside her, still linked to her captor by that silver chain. The  _ sul’dam _ ’s body was blackened as if from a fire, and even in death her face was twisted in pain. The  _ damane _ appeared untouched, but no less dead. Rand’s stomach roiled at the sight.

“Whatever hurt the  _ sul’dam _ takes, the  _ damane _ linked to her feels fivefold,” Elayne was saying. She sounded heartbroken. “That was what they told me. I knew. But I did it anyway. That poor woman.”

Min still had her arm around Elayne’s shoulders. She caressed her now, trying to comfort her in her grief. “It’s not your fault, Elayne. The  _ sul’dam _ brought her here, put that leash on her, made her try to kill us all. They’re the ones to blame. Not you, never you.”

Rand didn’t know what to say. “Thank you, Elayne,” he managed at last. “That beast would have killed me if not for you.” He did not look at the dead women again. “And the  _ sul’dam _ would probably have killed us all if you hadn’t been here.”

Grief warred briefly with concern on Elayne’s face and concern won. “Are you badly hurt? You’re covered in blood. Sit down and let me find some bandages.”

Rand shook his head. “I’ll be alright. I don’t think any of the cuts were deep.”

He glanced towards the door, where Tomas was already tying a strip of cloth around Perrin’s leg, drawing it as tightly as he could. Perrin made little sound, however painful it might have been.

Ingtar sheathed his sword and made his way back to the Horn, stepping over Seanchan corpses as he did so. He lifted it reverently from its stand and cradled it in his arms. “We have what we came for. And those fools never cried for help, not once. If no alarm is given, we’re done here. We are leaving now, as fast as we can run, out the way we came and back to the horses. Let’s go!”

As Rand gathered his bow and stumbled towards the door, Perrin caught his eye. “Rand, these people are crazy. Those servants ... I saw it. Madness.” Rand could only nod in agreement.

Bloodied, weary, but triumphant, they hastened along the halls of the Divalaird. They encountered only servants on their way out; on sighting the armed and bloodied men the servants, whether it be a grey-haired man in white wool or another nubile girl in a nearly transparent robe, knelt and lowered their faces to the floor with their arms wrapped around their heads. He was relieved to see none of them reach for a knife, for their sake as much as Rand’s and his friends’.

Not long after they reached Elayne’s manufactured entrance shouts rose from far behind; a woman screamed, and someone began tolling a gong.

Rand sped after the others as fast as he could.


	36. To Come Out of the Shadow

CHAPTER 65: To Come Out of the Shadow

Rand peered around the corner at the approaching Seanchan, then ducked back into the narrow alley between two stables. There was blood crusted on his cheek. The cuts he had from Turak burned, but there was nothing to be done for them now. Distant lightning flashed across the sky again; he felt the rumble of its plummet through his boots.  _ What in the name of the Light is happening? _

“Close?” Ingtar said.

“They turned north, towards the city walls,” said Rand. “There was a woman with them,  _ sul’dam _ maybe, but without the dress, and with no  _ damane _ attached to her.” Elayne had said that any  _ damane _ who got too close might be able to sense the ability to channel in her. She was up ahead with the others. The stable where they had left their horses was close now.  _ So close _ .

Ingtar grunted. “I doubt a  _ sul’dam _ would march to battle without her uniform. Perhaps it was that prisoner Seta mentioned. The fighting is drawing close now. You can hear it on the wind. The skirmishing will be done and the real battle is about to begin. It’s a perfect opportunity to escape.”

_ Death by slow impalement _ , Rand recalled.  _ Like her mother before her. As soon as her father’s army was close enough to see _ . “Horrible,” he whispered.

He wet his lips with his tongue. Down at the other end of the alley Perrin, Min and Elayne peering out into the street, ready to make their final dash for the horses. Ingtar held the Horn of Valere in his hands, and whatever Fain had done during Rand’s misadventure in the Portal Stone was beyond his power to undo. They were as close to safe as they could be. Safer than they would be in his company, once the madness started to take him.

_ Yes _ , he thought.  _ This is a good way for it to end _ .

“I’m going to try and free that prisoner,” Rand said. He was surprised at how calm his voice sounded. The Shienaran lord gave him a look of pure incredulity. “Take the Horn back to Fal Dara, Ingtar. Tell my friends that I’ll catch up when I can ... and if I don’t,” he smiled sadly. “Take care of them for me.”

“You fool!” Ingtar snapped. “We have what we came for. The Horn of Valere. The hope of salvation. What can one girl count, alongside the Horn, and what it stands for?”

Rand hefted his weapons. “What does finding the Horn count if I abandon this Evelin to such a horrible fate? If I did that, the Horn couldn’t save me. The Creator couldn’t save me. I would damn myself.”

Ingtar stared at him, his face unreadable. “You mean that exactly, don’t you?”

He didn’t, at least not exactly, but he couldn’t tell Ingtar the real reason. So instead he smiled and said, “Good luck, Ingtar. It’s been an honour riding with you.  _ Tai’shar _ Shienar.”

With that Rand sped off towards the walls of Falme, where the Seanchan had led their prisoner. We could feel Ingtar’s eyes on his back until he rounded a corner and ran up the cobbled street.

The people of the city had all fled indoors and the empty streets reminded him of Shadar Logoth. He hoped the Aes Sedai had been able to heal Mat of the illness he had found there. He hoped Nynaeve was doing well in the White Tower.

It was easy to find Princess Evelin, all he had to do was get a clear look at the walls. The Seanchan had her atop them, standing near a tall spike of wood with a taller pulley. Her hands were bound together and a burly man in a long dark apron, his face covered by a loose leather mask, was tying another rope to her bindings, one that dangled from the end of the pulley. Three Seanchan soldiers held her still as the masked man did his work.

A small crowd had gathered in a nearby square to see the grizzly spectacle, mostly Seanchan from their clothes. Perhaps fifty armoured soldiers stood among them, looking up.

Rand’s path had brought him near the wall, which loomed three stories high. A flight of narrow stone steps had been carved into it but he didn’t climb those. They would leave him too exposed. The houses to his left shielded him from the view of those gathered in the square. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, tipped with a curved broadhead meant for larger game. From that angle he was sure he could hit all three of the men that held the girl prisoner, but he doubted it would do her much good, the other soldiers would quickly overwhelm him. He chose three more arrows and set them close to hand.  _ At least I’ll give her a fighting chance _ , he told himself.  _ A chance to escape, or if that fails then to at least die a less hideous death _ .

“The Horn of Valere must be saved, Rand.”

He whipped his head around at the sound of Ingtar’s voice. The Shienaran stood not three feet from Rand, his clothes bloodied and the gleaming Horn cradled in his arms. Despite everything he seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts.

“What are you doing here?” Rand hissed. “You need to go, Ingtar, before the Seanchan see us.”

“One man could hold fifty here,” Ingtar said. The houses stood close to the city wall, with barely room for the pair of them to stand side by side between them. “One man holding fifty at a narrow passage. Not a bad way to die. Songs have been made about less.”

“Maybe a gleeman will write one for me then, if you tell him. After you go. Which should be now.” The Seanchan soldiers released their prisoner and the burly man in the mask began hauling on the rope that held her. With her limbs freed she kicked at her captors, sending one man stumbling back, but it was a futile defiance. Her feet left the ground and she spun slowly in the air, turning her back to Rand and giving him a good look at the ropes between her wrists. She strained against them, pulling them taut ... it was too perfect a shot to let pass.

The void came easily. Rand drew fully and sent the broadhead flashing between Evelin’s outstretched hands. The ropes parted and the princess came crashing back down to the stone walls of her city. He nocked a second arrow, a narrower bodkin this time, and sent it through the neck of the nearest Seanchan while the man was still gaping at the fallen girl. The second soldier ducked and reached for his sword, shouting something, head swivelling in search of the archer he now knew was nearby.

“I never knew what he was going to do,” Ingtar was saying softly, as if talking to himself. He stood at Rand’s side with the Horn cradled under his arm and his sword out, testing the edge with his thumb. “A pale little man you didn’t seem to really notice even when you were looking at him. Take him inside Fal Dara, I was told, inside the fortress. I did not want to, but I had to do it. You understand? I had to. I never knew what he intended until he shot that arrow. I still don’t know if it was meant for the Amyrlin, or for you.”

Rand felt a chill, even through the void. He had the shot, and he took it, knowing before he loosed that his target was dead. While the arrow was in mid-flight he turned his face to stare at Ingtar. “What are you saying?” he whispered.

Studying his blade, Ingtar did not seem to hear. “Humankind is being swept away everywhere. Nations fail and vanish. Darkfriends are everywhere, and none of these southlanders seem to notice or care. We fight to hold the Borderlands, to keep them safe in their houses, and every year, despite all we can do, the Blight advances. And these southlanders think Trollocs are myths, and Myrddraal a gleeman’s tale.” He frowned and shook his head. “It seemed the only way. We would be destroyed for nothing, defending people who do not even know, or care. It seemed logical. Why should we be destroyed for them, when we could make our own peace? Better the Shadow, I thought, than useless oblivion, like Caralain, or Hardan, or ... It seemed so logical, then.”

Rand grabbed Ingtar’s lapels. “You aren’t making any sense.”  _ He can’t mean what he’s saying. He can’t _ . “Say it plain, whatever you mean. You are talking crazy!”

For the first time Ingtar looked at Rand. His eyes shone with unshed tears. “You are a better man than I. Shepherd or lord, a better man. The prophecy says, ‘Let who sounds me think not of glory, but only salvation.’ It was my salvation I was thinking of. I would sound the Horn, and lead the heroes of the Ages against Shayol Ghul. Surely that would have been enough to save me. No man can walk so long in the Shadow that he cannot come again to the Light. That is what they say. Surely that would have been enough to wash away what I have been, and done.”

“Oh, Light, Ingtar.” Rand released his hold on the other man and sagged back against the house’s wall. He could hear angry shouts from the square around the corner and the sound of many boots pounding on stone. “I think ... I think wanting to is enough. I think all you have to do is stop being ... one of them.” Ingtar flinched as if Rand had said it out loud. Darkfriend.

“Rand, when Verin brought us here with the Portal Stone, I—I lived other lives. Sometimes I held the Horn, but I never sounded it. I tried to escape what I’d become, but I never did. Always there was something else required of me, always something worse than the last, until I was ... You were ready to give it up to save a stranger. Think not of glory. Oh, Light, help me.”

Up on the wall Evelin had gained her feet and was grappling with the masked man. She put a boot to the man’s heavy gut and kicked hard against him. He fell back, his legs hit the ramparts of the city wall and he careened over, falling from sight with a loud yell. She looked around frantically, saw Rand and Ingtar in the narrow street, and ran towards them along the wall.

Rand was only partly aware of her. He did not know what to say to Ingtar. It was as if Nynaeve had told him she had murdered children. Too horrible to be believed. Too horrible for anyone to admit to unless it was true. Too horrible.

Ingtar spoke again, firmly. “There has to be a price, Rand. There is always a price. Perhaps I can pay it here.”

“Ingtar, I—”

“It is every man’s right, Rand, to choose when to Sheathe the Sword. Even one like me.”

Before Rand could say anything, Hurin’s voice sounded from behind. “There you are! Everyone was worried, Lord Ingtar, Lord Rand. The stables are clear for now but we’d best be going quickly before those bug-headed Seanchan come back.”

Above, Evelin had reached the top of the stone steps. They slanted down to the street behind Rand and Ingtar and for as far as he could see to the north there was no other way up. She had hair of a similar shade to Elayne’s but shorter and straighter, and now that he got a closer look at her he was surprised at how big she was; six foot at the least. She hesitated, and looked about to climb down when Ingtar spoke.

“Keep running, my Lady,” he called. “They will not catch you up there. And you go, too, Rand.” He placed the Horn of Valere in Rand’s arms. “Take the Horn where it belongs. I always knew the Amyrlin should have given you the charge. But all I ever wanted was to keep Shienar whole, to keep us from being swept away and forgotten.” He stepped forward into the middle of the narrow street and did not look at Rand or Hurin again.

“I know, Ingtar.” Rand drew a deep breath. “The Light shine on you, Lord Ingtar of House Shinowa, and may you shelter in the palm of the Creator’s hand.” He touched Ingtar’s shoulder. “The last embrace of the mother welcome you home. My friend.” Hurin gasped.

“Thank you,” Ingtar said softly. A tension seemed to go out of him. For the first time since the night of the Trolloc raid on Fal Dara, he stood as he had when Rand first saw him, confident and relaxed. Content.

Rand turned and found Hurin staring at him, staring at both of them. “It is time for us to go.”

“But Lord Ingtar—”

“—does what he has to,” Rand said sharply. “But we go.” Hurin nodded, and Rand trotted after him. Evelin ran along the wall above them, throwing glances back over her shoulder, but he soon lost sight of her.

Rand could hear a multitude of booted feet enter the street behind. Ingtar’s voice rose. “For the Light, and Shienar!” The clash of steel joined the roar of other voices.

He looked back once before he rounded the corner. Ingtar was engaged by three armoured Seanchan, whose feet were tangled by the bodies of two of their fallen comrades; three he fought, and behind them milled thirty more, all eager to lock swords with the lone Shienaran who barred their path. Rand turned his face away and ran on.

“The Light, and Shinowa!” Ingtar’s shout soared after him, sounding triumphant, and lightning crashed across the sky in answer.


	37. Falme

CHAPTER 66: Falme

When Bayle arrived at the Divalaird he found it in chaos. As disciplined and orderly as the Seanchan usually were, it was shocking to see so many of them milling about. He was not an unfamiliar presence around the High Lord Turak so the guards usually admitted him without problem, but this time they barely even glanced at him as he approached, instead staring ahead with transfixed expressions.

It was worse inside. Servants wept and tore their hair as Bayle stumped past.  _ What do be wrong? _ he wondered. Up ahead a covered litter was being carried on the shoulders of four strong men while dozens of weeping Seanchan crowded around. The litter seemed to have come from the High Lord’s solar. Bayle walked to the open doorway on hesitant feet.

“What do be the matter?” he asked a robed servant near the back of the mob.

“The High Lord Turak has been murdered,” the man wailed. “Thieves! Traitors! This honourless land has spilled the highest Blood.”

“It is terrible,” said a grey-haired woman, weeping openly. “Did you come to bask once more in the High Lord’s company, Illianer? You must grieve with us, then, for never again will he enlighten your mind.”

“Tragic,” Bayle said, with a despairing sigh. The Seanchan nodded in assumed understanding as they walked slowly off behind the litter.

Bayle Domon’s despair had less to do with Turak’s death and more to do with his own situation. He had been hoping to draw on the High Lord’s favour to secure a written pass that would let him finally sail from this damnable port.  _ Fortune prick me! This whole venture do be a disaster _ . His crew had not been paid in months and Bayle still worried they would throw him overboard as soon as the  _ Spray _ was out of sight of land, even with the girl to distract them. He had hated having to ask her to do what he had asked her, she seemed a nice young woman, but he hadn’t been able to think of any other way. Now even that desperate and distasteful plan had been scuppered by Turak’s death. He supposed he might raise sail and make a run for the next port while the Seanchan were distracted by the Falmeran army, but his crew would almost certainly mutiny before he got that far.

Bayle’s gaze fell on the room Turak had been taken from and though he was not a squeamish man, his stomach still roiled at the sight. There was blood everywhere, and the bodies of men and women and even a great grey-skinned beast littered the once pristine and orderly chamber where it had pleased the High Lord to discuss antiquities with his reluctant guest.

On the far side of the room the cabinet where Turak kept his prized treasures was still closed. Bayle’s eyes widened and he shot a look up the hallway, first left and then right. There was no-one in sight. Thieves, the man had said. He wondered what they had taken ... and what they had left.

Bayle Domon was no thief. He might occasionally ship goods that some folk would consider ... questionable, and he avoided customs officers and taxmen as much as he could, but he was not a man to be found prowling dark alleys or breaking the windows of decent folk. He liked to think himself a relatively honest man. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and Turak certainly wouldn’t be needing his treasures any more.

The captain’s boots squelched on the blood-soaked carpet as he hastened toward the cabinet. A glance back at the door assured him he was still alone and he quickly pulled the cabinet doors open. As he had hoped when he saw it safely shut, whatever the thieves had been looking for it was not one of the antiques. Bayle hastily began pocketing as much of Turak’s horde as he could. The smooth disk, half black and half white and divided by a sinuous line, might not have looked valuable to some traders, but to those who knew better it was worth a fortune. He took it from its stand and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat. He took the lightstick, too, left from the Age of Legends, or so it was said. Certainly no-one knew the making of them any longer. Expensive, that, and rarer than an honest magistrate. It looked like a plain glass rod, thicker than his thumb and not quite as long as his forearm, but when held in the hand it glowed as brightly as a lantern. Lightsticks shattered like glass, too; he had nearly lost  _ Spray _ in the fire caused by the first he had owned. The small, age-dark ivory carving of a man holding a sword also disappeared into Bayle’s pocket. Turak had told him that the fellow he acquired it from claimed if you held it long enough you started to feel warm. Turak never had, and neither had Bayle when the High Lord let him hold it, but it was old, and that was enough for now. His crew were not a particularly educated bunch but they had sailed with him long enough to know that he could make a tidy profit from selling old “trinkets” such as these. If he promised them double pay once he could find a buyer then perhaps he might just make it back to Illian after all.

Bayle hesitated over the red  _ cuendillar _ bird that Egeanin had taken from him. It was the only thing in the cabinet that was his by rights, but he left it among the treasures that were too big to conceal. Anyone who thought to search for the missing treasures would be less likely to suspect Bayle if his own “gift” to the High Lord was not among the stolen items.

When he had what he thought he would need, Bayle hastened back towards the Divalaird’s gate. Light willing he might just get out of this yet.

* * *

Furyk Karede dismounted to lead his horse up the slopes towards the Captain-General’s command post. The rest of his grim dozen marching behind him. They had been sent to these lands by the Empress herself—may she live forever!—to be the living banner of her favour, and to protect her cousin, the High Lord Turak Aladon. He was proud to perform the duty assigned him, yet Furyk’s thoughts were now troubled. The Deathwatch Guard was under Turak’s temporary command, but their ultimate loyalty, always and ever, was to the Empress; may she live forever. Was it her will that they obey Turak now? Or should they have stayed at his side. Turak had sent them to the front, overriding Furyk’s objections. The High Lord claimed they could better protect him by helping to crush the enemy army, and perhaps he was right, but Furyk disliked leaving his safety in the hands of lesser warriors.

He glanced back at his men, each armoured in the blood-red and dark-green—so dark it was often thought to be black—armour of the Deathwatch. They were the property of the Empress, every last man, and fiercely proud to be so. Furyk himself was not the only one among them to bear the heron on his tasselled sword. Alin, Varlen and Aramas also displayed the famed symbol. Tul and Kardol would almost certainly be afforded that honour, too, if either man ever cared to contest for it. They never had in all the years he had known them. Such things were irrelevant in their eyes; serving the Empress was all. May she live forever.

If his fellow guardsmen were as troubled by Turak’s orders as Furyk was, no sign showed on their stern faces or in their constantly roving eyes. They were unlikely to encounter the enemy this close to Miraj’s tent, but the Deathwatch never relaxed their vigilance. Any trainee who failed to understand that did not survive long enough to don the armour.

He sent one last look at the Divalaird tower, modest by Seanchan standards but seemingly famous among the people of this honour-forsaken land, and offered up a prayer that the High Lord would be safe, then turned his feet towards the Captain-General’s tent, doing his duty as he saw it.

* * *

“They do not attempt the hill then?” said Captain-General Miraj, face impassive as he studied the neat maps on his table.

“The  _ morat’raken _ report that the enemy attempt to bypass our position while enduring our archers’ fire. They have taken losses but refuse to engage,” his man said.

Miraj nodded. “I have no doubt the report is accurate. Our current enemy is not as foolish as some on this side of the Aryth Ocean. No matter. It was to be expected.” He fixed the lesser Seanchan officers assembled in the tent with a stern eye. “Prepare to advance. You will have full  _ damane _ support but they are not to be used until I give the signal. Your task will be to force the enemy into consolidating his forces. These oathbreakers are not used to facing the  _ damane _ in battle, but they may scatter if they see their power too soon. I want to end this quickly and decisively.”

“As you command, Captain-General,” said the vile Bakuun. He was older than Miraj and taller. Miraj was a very short man in fact, not much taller than Pura herself. Not that that made her hate him any less.

He waited until the officers had withdrawn—all save the Deathwatch Guard, around whom all other Seanchan seemed to walk carefully—before turning his attention to Lisaine. Pura felt the plump, grey-haired woman’s appreciation through the leash that bound them together.

“Will your current charge be able to join the battle, Lisaine?” he said quietly.

The  _ sul’dam _ stroked Pura’s long brown hair, a wave of affection assaulted her through the  _ a’dam _ , tainted by the other woman’s disappointment. Pura—no, Ryma! Her name was Ryma—shuddered, fighting to quash the terrible urge to please the  _ sul’dam _ , fighting to suppress the sick sense of shame she felt for failing her.

“Sadly not, Kennar,” said Lisaine, with a sigh of martyred patience. “Pura can perform many small tasks, and she does them well, but fighting is beyond her at the moment. I confess I do not understand why. No other  _ damane _ I have trained has had such trouble.”

None of those other  _ damane _ were bound by the Oath Rod never to use the One Power as a weapon except against Darkfriends or Shadowspawn, or in the last extreme defence of her life, the life of her Warder, or another Aes Sedai. Ryma had tried to explain that once. She still flinched to recall the  _ sul’dam _ ’s response, her hatred and contempt. She was not an Aes Sedai they had told her. Those vile women were  _ marath’damane _ , even moreso than the rest, and they would soon suffer the Empress’ justice. Pura had not been able to move without a twinge of pain for an entire week after that.

“I’m sure you will find a solution eventually, Lisaine. You always do,” said Miraj. Her  _ sul’dam _ smiled brightly in response.

From outside the tent she could hear the distant sounds of battle. Men’s raised voices carried on the wind along with the screams of the dying and the clash of steel on steel. She missed Zabac. The first tears she had shed during her captivity had been for him. The next had been for herself when, starving, she had finally pressed her forehead to the ground and pleaded with the  _ sul’dam _ to feed her, just as they had told her she must and would. Obedience was getting easier for Ryma, she found herself answering to the new name they had given her almost as readily as she would her own, and that terrified her more than anything else in her life ever had.

She frowned. The sounds drifting in from outside seemed closer than they had been. The black-armoured man at Miraj’s shoulder, Karede she thought his name was, moved with shocking speed. He and his fellows were already outside forming a ring around the entry by the time Lisaine had pulled her forwards.

They were atop a rocky hill north of Falme, with the rough waters of the White Sea to their back and a staked palisade protecting their southern side. When she glanced that way she saw the battle in full swing, distant figures struggling to kill each other, but it was the more immediate struggle that demanded her attention.

The Seanchan lines were unbroken, the command tent should have been safe, but somehow fifty or so Falmerans had slipped through. Even as she watched they cut down the few Seanchan who remained to serve the Captain-General’s needs, clerks, quartermasters, a token guard. When they turned their attention to the small group gathered outside Miraj’s tent, she knew their purpose. When she recognised the dark-skinned man who led them, she knew hope for the first time in months. Lord Jervin had been at Calranell when she had passed through on her way to learn what, if anything, on Toman Head should concern the White Tower.  _ If he could just take this collar off me ... _

“How did they ...?” Miraj began, then snapped a glance at one of his remaining adjutants. “Send the signal to begin the bombardment!” The Captain-General snatched his sword from its scabbard as shouting Falmerans charged towards them, with hungry swords in their hands.

Fear warred with hope in Ryma. If the Falmerans did not recognise her they might cut her down as swiftly as they would the Seanchan.

Steel clashed against steel. As the fight took shape around her she began to think herself safer than she had feared. But that only turned her initial worry into terror. The Falmerans greatly outnumbered Miraj’s protectors but the Deathwatch Guard formed a ring of armoured bodies and flashing blades around the Captain-General and the Falmeran charge shattered against that ring like glass hurled against a stone wall. Blood flew, bodies fell, warcries turned to deathcries, until a ring of corpses surrounded them. The remaining Falmerans, Jervin among them, faltered and stood staring at the red-and-green armoured men. Not a single one of the bodies before her wore that armour, Karede and his fellow Deathwatch Guards stood unbloodied, the only sign of their exertion the loud breaths that came from behind their strange helms.

Hope died in Ryma then. She squeezed her eyes shut and felt tears leak from their corners as she knelt at the  _ sul’dam _ ’s side. She would never be free, she would never be safe.

“Ah, that’s interesting,” said Lisaine, sounding pleasantly surprised. Ryma felt herself fill with  _ saidar _ ’s glory, drawn into her by the  _ sul’dam _ ’s will rather than her own. She had only a moment to realise the horror of what was coming before she saw the weaves form. Fire was not her strongest element, but she could channel enough of it for Lisaine’s purpose.

She watched helpless as a terrible, beautiful flower of pure heat bloomed in the midst of those few remaining Falmerans. Lord Jervin and his men barely had time to scream before the flames consumed them. Ryma’s stomach roiled at the sight and she lowered her gaze to the rocky dirt.

“There you see?” said Lisaine delightedly as she pet her  _ damane _ ’s hair. “You can do it, just as I said. Pura is a good  _ damane _ .” Pura sighed in despair.

* * *

People were dying all around her and her every instinct cried out against it, filling her with fury. Nynaeve had no difficulty grasping  _ saidar _ now; as filled with the Power as she was she felt almost as though she, too, was on fire.

Plenty of others had more to worry about that simply feeling that strange phantom burning, they were busy burning in truth. She saved as many as she could but the Seanchan had so many  _ damane _ , too many for one woman to defeat. For every lightning bolt she shielded against, every fireball she extinguished, a dozen more fell among the Falmeran troops, each leaving a pile of twisted corpses in its wake and a bruise on Nynaeve’s heart.

She was strong with the One Power, all the Aes Sedai had agreed on that. But she was outnumbered and many of the channelers among the Seanchan army were pretty strong, too. It was hard to tell, considering the great distance between them, but she thought one woman up there might even be close to matching Nynaeve’s strength.

Nynaeve stood well back from the frontlines, she did not need to risk getting that close to do what she was doing, but she had little time to spare for the men and woman around her, shouting reports at Syoman and rushing off to deliver his orders to whoever they were meant for. Nynaeve’s focus was completely on saving as many lives as she could.

She was only peripherally aware of the grim silence that soon grew around her.

“But what about the King?” said Alix. “Should we not ...”

“Do as I command,” growled Syoman.

* * *

Alasdair had never seen his father fight so fiercely before. He knew that many Falmerans considered Kaelan Ostarim a bit of a fop, vain and foolish. But they were wrong. His father trained extensively with the sword and was as fit as most men half his age. Alasdair had not neglected his own training either; he very much wanted to make his father proud.

He yanked his sword free of the Seanchan’s body and let the man fall. He was the first to have won through to Alasdair’s position. His Falmerans had been holding their line well until the Seanchan’s chained Aes Sedai began attacking. Now ...

His father fought at the side of his personal guard, his blade whirling and blood almost turning his gilded armour red. Alasdair hoped none of that blood was his.

Nearer he could see old Lord Wulffe, the Hero of Harper’s Ford, waving his bloodied axe above his head as he urged his armsmen on. He hadn’t been supposed to be fighting so close to the front, but when he saw his fellow countrymen hard-pressed Wulffe had been quick to join the fray. Alasdair wasn’t certain he would have survived that last Seanchan push if not for the lord’s arrival.

Nearer still was a blackened ruin he would not have known was the Elstan’s man, Gilmor, if he had not seen the lightning strike him.

Another ball of fire struck among the Falmerans with a roar that threatened to deafen Alasdair. Even at a distance he felt a wave of heat wash over him. The lucky soldiers died instantly, the others staggered briefly about the field, flailing their arms about them and screaming in pain before they, too, succumbed to the flames.

The archers he had been charged with defending loosed again, but though their arrows were felling many among the enemy ranks they were paltry weapons in comparison to what the Seanchan unleashed upon them.

“Where is our cavalry?” he shouted between gasping breaths. Syoman should have struck the Seanchan flanks by now. Alasdair wasn’t sure how much longer they could wait.

“I don’t see them, my prince,” a girl’s voice answered. It took him a moment to recognise her as the scout he had met earlier in the day. “General Surtir isn’t on the hill anymore though. He must be on his way.” She loosed another arrow into the thick of the Seanchan horde.

Alasdair’s attention was suddenly elsewhere. Syoman wasn’t supposed to ride with the flankers in person. Only a foolish general fought on the front lines and Syoman was no fool. Why would he leave his command post? Where would he go? The chaos of battle and the terrible proximity of death had long since set Alasdair’s heart to pounding constantly but now a new fear trickled its way down his spine.

“He’s not coming,” Alasdair whispered. “He left us.”

As if to confirm his fears a bolt of lightning struck the Falmeran ranks. Wulffe had been shouting encouragement to his men when he was cut off mid-sentence and thrown from his feet. Many of his armsmen were killed instantly and many more lay stunned. The Seanchan they had been fighting surged forward, their tasselled spears stabbing the dead and the living with equal dispassion. Wulffe struggled to regain his feet but only made it as far as one knee before the enemy and their spears were upon him. They sent the old bear back to the ground and this time he did not rise again.

Alasdair gritted his teeth. “We need to ...” To what? How could they defeat an enemy like this?

There came a loud trumpeting sound, seemingly far too musical to be part of this horror. He looked towards it and saw the strangest charge imaginable. Half a dozen grey-skinned beasts, each with two white tusks as long as any man was tall, thundered across the battlefield. They were huge and powerful things, almost as tall as the walls of Falme, so close and yet so far. Seanchan rode on the backs of the monsters and anyone unlucky enough to be caught in the path of their charge was crushed under their heavy feet. There were snake-like things attached to the place where their noses should be and it was from those that the sound blew. He watched in horror as they cascaded towards his father’s position.

“Father run!” he shouted, but he was too far away to be heard, too far away to do anything but watch in pained horror as the beasts trampled the King’s elite guards underfoot like so many roaches, and one sent his father careening through the air with one sweep of its huge tusks.

Kaelan came crashing to the ground and lay still. His back was twisted in a painful manner but he did not cry out or writhe in agony. He just lay there.

“No,” breathed Alasdair.

The sounds of battle washed over him. The Seanchan had finished butchering Lord Wulffe’s men and were upon Alasdair’s and the archers behind them now. Feeling numb, he raised his sword to fight. It was hopeless, he knew that now. Perhaps it had always been hopeless. If the Seanchan had killed his sister like they had killed his parents then he was the last member of House Denagar. And there was nothing left except to die in a way that befit that.

As he ran to meet the enemy he saw one of them slash at the little scout. The sword sheared her bow in two and reached the flesh behind, slashing across at neck height and leaving a red ribbon in its wake. She screamed and fell. He called out her name as he charged but in his heart he knew she was dead. They all were.

* * *

Kennar did not insult Karede and his men by thanking them for doing their duty so exceptionally, but he did bow in respect. He was still surprised that the enemy had managed to penetrate their lines like that, unseen even by the  _ morat’raken _ . Kennar had been a flyer himself before being raised to the Blood and promoted to general and he had utter faith in his fellow airborne scouts. Perhaps too much faith. But then, he himself had examined the cliffs to his north and deemed them unscalable, and he could think of no other approach the Falmerans could have used.

He was still excited from the attack and preferred to remain outside his command tent. The risk of assassination was small anyway, only a truly exceptional archer could hit him and even then they would require a great deal of luck on their side.

Down below, the battle was going in their favour. That was only as it should be, when the Empire faced oathbreaking rabble like these. His officers had followed the plan well, and manoeuvred the enemy into consolidating his forces, though Kennar’s hastily given order for the  _ damane _ to begin their attack had given the opposing general time to try and minimise his losses. The sounds of thunder, explosions and screaming men were muted this far up. Kennar had always thought that strange, but welcomed it, too; it let him think clearly. His sharp eyes saw part of the Falmeran army begin to disperse. Their general was rightly thinking that they would take fewer casualties from each blow the  _ damane _ struck if they were deployed in looser formations. Kennar could respect the man’s competence, but it would do him no good in the end; he was simply delaying the inevitable. The Ever Victorious Army fought for the Empress—may she live forever—and while they had known setbacks during the long centuries of the Consolidation, they had never known defeat. Light willing they never would. Kennar watched his forces march to victory until a fog rose up and hid them from view.  _ Strange _ , he thought.  _ It’s a bit late in the day for fog ... _


	38. The Grave Is No Bar to My Call

CHAPTER 67: The Grave Is No Bar to My Call

The others were already mounted by the time Rand and Hurin reached them. Elayne and Min having acquired horses of their own from somewhere.

“I wish there was time to find Lioness and Wildrose,” Elayne was saying sadly.

Before Min could respond, Perrin caught sight of Rand. “Where’s Ingtar?” he shouted. “What’s going on?”

“He’s dying,” Rand said harshly as he swung onto Red’s back. The girls gasped in unison.

“Then we have to help him,” Perrin said. “Min and Elayne can take the Horn to—”

“He is doing it so we can all get away,” Rand said.  _ For that, too _ . “We will all take the Horn to Verin, and then you can help her take it wherever she says it belongs.”

“What do you mean?” Perrin asked. Rand dug his heels into the bay’s flanks, and Red leaped away toward the gates of Falme and the hills beyond. The guards posted on the gate did not try to stop Rand from leaving, though they frowned suspiciously at his dishevelled state. Their job today was to watch for anyone trying to get in and if necessary to bar the gates, not to prevent anyone from leaving.

Rand whipped Red with his reins, then lay against the stallion’s neck as the bay laid out in a dead run, mane and tail streaming. He had thrust his hand through the great loop in the Horn’s main tube and it now bounced uncomfortably against his wrist. He wished he did not feel as if he were running away from what he was supposed to do.  _ Ingtar, a Darkfriend. I don’t care. He was still my friend _ . The bay’s gallop could not take him away from his own thoughts.  _ Death is lighter than a feather, duty heavier than a mountain. So many duties. The Horn. Fain. Tainted  _ saidin _ and what to do about it. Why can’t there just be one at a time? I have to take care of all of them _ .

He reined in so suddenly that Red slid to a halt, sitting back on his haunches. They were in a scanty copse of bare-branched trees atop one of the hills overlooking Falme. The others galloped up behind him.

“What do you mean?” Perrin demanded. “We can help Verin take the Horn where it’s supposed to go? Where are you going to be?”

“I ... don’t know ...” He felt strange, like something was pulling him, tugging at his coat insistently. “Just take the Horn to Verin.” So many threads, in so much danger. So many duties. “You do not need me.”

“Are you well, Rand?” asked Elayne. The lightning was no longer distant. It was inside him.

“None of us are,” said Tomas grimly. The Warder was looking down the eastern slope of their hill, from where a great clamour rose. Rose? It had always been there.  _ Why didn’t I notice it? _

“They’re in trouble,” Rand muttered. There was an odd feeling in his head, as if pieces of his life were in danger. Elayne was one piece, one thread of the cord that made his life, Min was another, Perrin, too, and there were more, some near, some far, and he could feel them threatened. If any of those threads was destroyed, his life would never be complete, the way it was meant to be. He did not understand it, but the feeling was sure and certain.

Someone put a hand on his forearm and squeezed it gently. Words were spoken but Rand could not hear them. He jerked in his saddle, instinctually trying to resist whatever it was that held him. The Horn bounced against him irritatingly so he pulled it from his wrist and shoved it into the arms of the nearest person.

There was a squawk; there were creatures in the sky but they had not made the noise. Flying creatures. That felt right somehow, familiar.

“We can’t go back,” Elayne was saying. “None of us can, not after what happened in the Divalaird. And I would sooner die than be recaptured by the  _ sul’dam _ .”

“Either side could kill us,” Hurin said, “even if they never see the Horn. If they do ...”

Rand shook his head. Threads. Duties. He felt as if he were about to explode like a firework.  _ Light, what’s happening to me? _

“If we could just make contact with the Falmerans ... if we could tell them who we are ...”

_ Who we are. Who are we? _ An answer came to Rand, but he shoved it away before it had a chance to form completely.

He forced his mind into order and for the first time got a good look at the fields around him. They were black with soldiers, Seanchan and Falmeran both. Tens of thousands of them rank on rank, with troops of cavalry riding scaled beasts as well as armoured men on horses, colourful gonfalons marking the officers. They clashed and struggled in what looked to Rand like utter chaos.  _ Grolm _ dotted the ranks of Seanchan, and other strange creatures, almost but not quite like monstrous birds and lizards, and great things like nothing he could describe, with grey, wrinkled skin and huge tusks. At intervals along the lines stood  _ sul’dam _ and  _ damane _ by the score. The  _ sul’dam _ gestured repeatedly towards the army that opposed them and men died. Just like that they died, rent by fire, a dozen at a time. Two flying beasts, with leathery wings sixty feet from tip to tip, soared high overhead, keeping well away from where bright bolts of lightning lanced down to strike the beleaguered Falmerans again and again. Bodies littered the field and only perhaps one in five wore the distinctive armour of the Seanchan.

“I don’t see any way around all that,” Perrin muttered. “Or any way through.”

“If the  _ sul’dam _ see us and think us part of the enemy army ...” Elayne bit her lip. “I don’t think I would be able to block them all, but I shall try.”

_ I have to go forward. I have to _ . Rand found himself staring at the Horn of Valere. Suddenly they all were, their heads turning in unison. The curled, golden Horn hung from the pommel of Min’s horse, the focus of every eye.

“It has to be there at the Last Battle,” Min said, licking her lips nervously. “Nothing says it can’t be used before then. Nothing that I know of at least.” She lifted the Horn free and looked at them anxiously. “Nothing says it can’t.”

No-one else said anything. Rand did not think he could speak; his own thoughts were too urgent to allow room for speech.  _ Have to go forward. Have to go forward _ . The longer he looked at the Horn, the more urgent his thoughts became.  _ Have to. Have to _ .

Min’s hands shook as she raised the Horn of Valere to her lips. Elayne’s eyes went very wide.

It was a clear note, golden as the Horn was golden, a sound so sweet he wanted to laugh, so mournful he wanted to cry. It seemed to come from every direction at once. The trees around them seemed to resonate with it, and the ground under their feet, the sky overhead. That one long sound encompassed everything. Rand thoughts burst back into focus, he became himself again and not the hundreds of jittering impulses that he had been.  _ What in the Light was that? _

He had no time to try and form an answer, for out of nowhere, a fog began to rise. First thin wisps hanging in the air, then thicker billows, and thicker, until it blanketed the land like clouds.

Rand could not see the battle around them any longer. Min had lowered the Horn, eyes wide with awe, but the sound of it still rang in Rand’s ears. The fog hid everything in rolling waves as white as the finest bleached wool, yet Rand could see. He could see, but it was mad. Falme floated somewhere beneath him, its landward border black with the Seanchan ranks. Falme hung over his head. There Falmerans charged and died as the earth opened in fire beneath their horses’ hooves. There men ran about the decks of tall, square ships in the harbour, and on one small ship beat for the sea. He clutched his head with both hands. The trees were hidden, but he could still see each of the others clearly. Hurin anxious. Tomas, his composure cracked and fear in his eyes. Perrin looking as if he knew this was meant to be. Elayne’s mouth hung open and she stared about excitedly, while Min looked nervous enough to faint. The fog roiled up all around them.

Hurin gasped. “Lord Rand!” There was no need for him to point.

Down the billowing fog, as if it were the side of a mountain, they came. At first the dense mists hid more than their vague shapes, but slowly they came closer, and it was Rand’s turn to gasp. He knew them. Men, not all in armour, and women. Their clothes and their weapons came from every Age, but he knew them all.

Rogosh Eagle-eye, a fatherly looking man with white hair and eyes so sharp as to make his name merely a hint. Gaidal Cain, a swarthy man with the hilts of his two swords sticking above his broad shoulders. Golden-haired Birgitte, with her gleaming silver bow and quiver bristling with silver arrows. Bryce of Coremanda, from whom no Darkfriend could hide, his face shadowed by his dark cowl. Etsio of Shiota, who had fought a hundred duels and loved a hundred women. Kent the Struggler, one-armed and huge. Gabrielle the Magnificent, Alan the Quick. More. He knew their faces, knew their names. But he heard a hundred names when he looked at each face, some so different he did not recognize them as names at all, though he knew they were. Michael instead of Mikel. Patrick instead of Paedrig. Oscar instead of Otarin. Ming instead of Ling.

He knew the man who strode at their head, too. Tall and hook-nosed, with dark, deep-set eyes, his great sword Justice at his side. Artur Hawkwing. The High King.

Hawkwing had warred against the White Tower in life, but several Aes Sedai walked beside him in death, seemingly untroubled by the ancient conflict. The tall, dark-skinned woman, her chainmail so silvered it was almost white, could only be Rashima the Soldier Amyrlin, who had commanded Tar Valon’s armies during the Trolloc Wars. Slight and gracious Mabriam en Shereed, founder of the Pact of the Ten Nations glided along beside her. The great healer Azra was with them. And amidst the crowd he spotted another, a white-haired woman in a plain grey robe. A name drifted into his mind. Elisane.

Min gaped at them as they came to stand before her. They all gaped in fact; even the Warder’s usual stolidity had been shattered. Hurin’s eyes bulged almost out of his head.

“Is this ...? Is this all of you?” Min said in a quavering voice. They were little more than a hundred, Rand saw, and realized that somehow he had known that they would be.

“It takes more than bravery to bind a man to the Horn.” Artur Hawkwing’s voice was deep and carrying, a voice used to giving commands.

“Or a woman,” Birgitte said sharply.

“Or a woman,” Hawkwing agreed. “Only a few are bound to the Wheel, spun out again and again to work the will of the Wheel in the Pattern of the Ages. You could tell her, Lews Therin, could you but remember when you wore flesh.” He was looking at Rand.

Rand shook his head fiercely, he heard gasps and could feel his friends’ eyes on him but did not dare glance their way. “That’s not my name,” he gritted.

“Names are fleeting,” said fair Caira Rand, who had forged Basharande out of the ruins of Jaramide. Rand had sometimes wondered if his mother had named him after her. “Our faces, our voices, our bodies, our genders. All change again and again over the infinite turnings of the Wheel. But our souls remain, and it is they that define us most.” She smiled prettily. “Old friend.”

“No,” he whispered. “No.” Amidst the gathered Heroes there were people he had never heard tell of, people wearing clothes that were beyond strange and carrying weapons he had no name for. Some didn’t even look human, like the slender, white-haired man whose skin was as dark as ebony and whose eyes glowed with a fierce red light. A vague, unwelcome awareness grew in him when he looked their way. The dark-haired woman with the strong, unyielding face carried what looked like a crossbow, only without the bow; she had been called Ellen once, Susan other times. Nate. There was a man covered completely in armour, red armour that glowed unnaturally. And another all in green who would have towered over any but an Ogier. He knew them. “No.” The man in the blue uniform with the lived-in face had commanded ships before and would command them again. A solemn-looking fellow wore a long black coat and had an odd, dark little device perched on the bridge of his nose, covering his eyes completely, seemingly blinding him. Names drifted across Rand’s mind again. Motoko. Jay. “No.”

Abruptly, a winged giant descended from the sky to alight behind the gathered Heroes. It was a giant made of metal and bristled with unknowable weapons. Rand gave a start at the sight and in the space between two beats of his pounding heart the giant was gone. In its place stood a slight young man with wild black hair and blue eyes. “Sorry. I suppose I should have chosen something more fitting to the current Age.”

“You should know better, Hunter,” said a deep-chested man in an unadorned yellow shirt and dark breeches. “It’s almost a first contact scenario.”

“Should I be worried you are going to start trying to hump the locals then?” Groused an eccentric-looking man with a little ribbon tied at the neck of his shirt. The Heroes laughed familiarly.

Rand shook his head in denial as he struggled to make sense of what was happening.  _ I’m not what, who, they called me. I can’t be, I won’t be! Please, Light, not that. Not ... the Kinslayer _ . He swallowed loudly and tried to recall why they had summoned these wraiths. If he could make them go away before they said more then perhaps his friends would forget what had already been said.

“Invaders have come,” Rand said, more loudly than was needed. “Men who call themselves Seanchan, who use chained Aes Sedai in battle. They are slaughtering the Falmerans and soon they will turn on us, too. They must be driven back into the sea.”

“War is sadly inevitable. But so is peace,” said Shona, the Virgin of Edirc. “And while some fates repeat themselves far too often, it is not always the same, Lews Therin.” Her eyes were kind, and knew too much.

“My name is Rand al’Thor,” he snapped. “You have to hurry. There isn’t much time.”

“Time?” Birgitte said, smiling as she tested her bowstring. “We have all of time.” Gaidal Cain drew a sword in either hand. Hernd the Striker took a hammer in one huge fist and a long spike in the other. The great Ogier builder, Brent son of Mart son of Wint, took up his long-handled axe. All along the small band of heroes there was an unsheathing of swords, an unlimbering of bows, a hefting of spears and axes. Even those like Paedrig and Blaes, who carried no weapons, had an air of readiness to them.

Rand watched the High King warily. “The invaders might have a familiar banner. A flying hawk with lighting clutched in its talons ...”

Hawkwing looked unconcerned by the prospect of battling his descendants. “That was one life among hundreds of thousands. You overestimate its relevance.”

“We are all each other’s mothers,” explained Queen Toph the Thrice-Great. “And we are all each other’s daughters. What value has blood when you accept that the body is transient?”

“There is no child in all this world who is not your son or daughter,” added Zheba the Just. “The belief that it is otherwise, that a few of our children should be favoured above all others, is a product of the animal instincts inherent in the flesh we inhabit while mortal. Be not its slave.”

Justice shone like a mirror in Artur Hawkwing’s gauntleted fist. “I have fought by your side times beyond number, Lews Therin, and faced you on the field of battle as many more. The Wheel spins us out for its purposes, not ours, to serve the Pattern. I know you, even if you do not know yourself. We will drive these invaders out for you.” He made as if to turn away then stopped, frowning. “Something is wrong here. Something holds me.” Suddenly he turned his sharp-eyed gaze on Rand. “You are here. Have you the banner?” A murmur ran through those behind him.

Rand groaned. “Yes,” he said as he undid the strap of his saddlebags. He pulled out the Dragon’s banner. It filled his hands and hung almost to his stallion’s knees. The murmur among the heroes rose.

“The Pattern weaves itself around our necks like halters,” Artur Hawkwing said. “You are here. The banner is here. The weave of this moment is set. We have come to the call of the Horn, but we must follow the banner ... of the Dragon Reborn.”

He had said it, said the damning words and now Rand had to look. Hurin made a faint sound as if his throat had seized. Elayne had a hand clapped over her mouth and was staring at Rand with eyes as big as teacups.

“Is that what it all meant?” Min whispered. She licked her lips and studied Rand as though seeing him for the first time.

“Burn me,” Tomas breathed. The Warder who had stood unflinching while outnumbered by Seanchan soldiers now backed away from Rand in horror.

The Dragon Reborn. The Kinslayer. The Breaker of Worlds. It was not every day you learned you were the greatest monster in history ... and prophesised to repeat your past crimes. Rand slumped in his saddle as grief washed over him.

Perrin had been staring at the yellow-eyed man amongst the Heroes, a white-haired fellow with two long swords strapped to his back. Another wolfbrother perhaps, though Perrin had claimed that those who could do as he now did had not existed in this world for as long as anyone could remember. But when Hawkwing finished speaking, Perrin hesitated only an instant before swinging down off his horse and striding into the mist.

Elayne spoke into the fraught silence. “Your Grace,” she said with frayed poise. “You said you must follow the ... the Dragon,” her cheeks coloured when she faltered, though she forged on. “But what of the one who sounds the Horn? Are you not theirs to command? I was taught that if a Darkfriend were to find it the Heroes would ride for the Shadow.”

“Then you were taught by fools,” declared Amerasu proudly from amidst her burning halo.

Min looked more relieved than dismayed at the fiery figure’s words. There came a chopping sound from the mist around them.

Mabriam took only an instant to study Elayne, yet Rand felt that instant was enough for her to know her completely. “You again. Try not to be too selfless this time dear. Some deals, no matter how carefully arranged, must simply be walked away from.” Elayne gave a squeak and stared back at her open-mouthed. The amber-skinned little woman smiled. “No. But just because you are not bound to the Wheel as we are does not mean we have not met before. That is another thing our stubborn friend here would know, were he not now mortal. Is it in the White Tower that you heard these defamatory claims?” Elayne nodded wordlessly. “Understand then that they did not lie to you. That belief was common even during my most recent incarnation, and the Oath Rod only prevents one from  _ knowingly _ speaking an untrue word. The Aes Sedai of this time may believe we can be controlled by this fine instrument, but they are quite mistaken. It but opens the door, that we might touch the mortal word again for a time.”

“I see,” Elayne said faintly.

By then Perrin had returned, carrying a straight length of sapling shorn of its branches. “Give the banner to me, Rand,” he said gravely. “If they need it ... Give it to me.”

Rand looked back at him despairingly. He wanted to heel his horse and ride away, to pretend that none of what they claimed was true. He had called the Amyrlin Seat a liar to her face when she named him the Dragon Reborn, but how was he to call the Heroes of legend liars, too?

With a long, defeated sigh, Rand passed the Dragon’s banner into Perrin’s hands. The wolfbrother promptly tied it to the pole he had fashioned. When Perrin remounted, pole in hand, a current of air seemed to ripple the pale length of the banner, so the serpentine Dragon appeared to move, alive. The wind did not touch the heavy fog, only the banner.

Rand slid Tam’s blade from its scabbard. “The rest of you stay here,” he said quietly. “When it’s over ... You will be safe, here.”

“I think we’ll be safer staying close to this lot actually,” said Min in a tone of exaggerated patience. She eyed Rand a bit warily before adding, “Stupid sheepherder,” under her breath.

“I would not miss this for anything,” said Elayne firmly.

Hurin drew his short sword, holding it as if it might actually be of some use from horseback. “Begging your pardon, Lord Rand, but I think not. I don’t understand the tenth part of what I’ve heard ... or what I’m seeing”—his voice dropped to a mutter before picking up again—“but I’ve come this far, and I think I’ll go the rest of the way.”

Artur Hawkwing clapped the sniffer on the shoulder. “Sometimes the Wheel adds to our number, friend. Perhaps you will find yourself among us, one day.” Hurin sat up as if he had been offered a crown. Hawkwing bowed formally from his saddle to Rand. “With your permission ... Lord Rand. Trumpeter, will you give us music on the Horn? Fitting that the Horn of Valere should sing us into battle. Bannerman, will you advance?”

Min sounded the Horn again, long and high—the mists rang with it—and Perrin heeled his horse forward. Rand rode between them.

Where before the Heroes had walked, now in the blink of an eye they were all mounted on spectral horses, each alike to the next, glowing with a strange blue light. The metal giant reappeared and the Hunter hopped onto it and then disappeared into it before together they rose into the sky. Weapons appeared in the hands of those who had had none as though conjured by will alone.

He could see nothing but thick billows of white, but somehow he could still see what he had before, too. Falme, and the harbour, and the Seanchan host, and the dying Falmerans, all of it beneath him, all of it hanging above, all of it just as it had been. It seemed as if no time at all had passed since the Horn was first blown, as though time had paused while the Heroes answered the call and now resumed counting.

The wild cries Min wrung from the Horn echoed in the fog along with the drumming of hooves as the horses picked up speed. Rand charged into the mists, wondering if he knew where he was headed. The clouds thickened, hiding the far ends of the rank of Heroes galloping to either side of him, obscuring more and more, till he could see only Min and Elayne at his left hand, and Perrin and Hurin on his right clearly. Min sounded the Horn, and laughed wildly between each blow. Elayne’s head swivelled excitedly as she tried to see as much as possible. Hurin crouched low in his saddle, wide-eyed, urging his horse on. Perrin, his yellow eyes glowing, had the Dragon’s banner streaming behind him. Then they were gone, too, and Rand rode on alone, as it seemed.

In a way, he could still see them, but now it was the way he could see Falme, and the Seanchan. He could not tell where they were, or where he was. He tightened his grip on his sword, peered into the mists ahead. He charged alone through the fog, and somehow he knew that was how it was meant to be.

Suddenly Ba’alzamon was before him in the mists, throwing his arms wide.

Red reared wildly, hurling Rand from his saddle. Rand clung to his sword desperately as he soared. It was not a hard landing. In fact, he thought with a sense of wonder that it was very much like landing on ... nothing at all. One instant he was sailing through the mists, and the next he was not.

When he climbed to his feet, his horse was gone, but Ba’alzamon was still there, striding toward him with a long, black-bladed sword in his hands. They were alone, only they and the rolling fog. Behind Ba’alzamon was shadow. The mist was not dark behind him; this blackness excluded the white fog.

Rand was aware of the other things, too. Artur Hawkwing and the other Heroes meeting the Seanchan in dense fog. Perrin, with the banner, swinging his axe more to fend off those who tried to reach him than harm them. Min, still blowing wild notes on the Horn of Valere. Elayne with lightning in her hands and joy in her heart. Hurin down from his saddle, fighting with short sword and sword-breaker in the way he knew. It seemed as if the Seanchan numbers would overwhelm them in one rush, yet it was the dark-armoured Seanchan who fell back.

Rand went forward to meet Ba’alzamon. Reluctantly, he assumed the void, reached for the True Source, was filled with the One Power. There was no other way. Perhaps he had no chance against the Forsaken, but whatever chance he did have lay in the Power. It soaked into his limbs, seemed to suffuse everything about him, his clothes, his sword. He felt as if he should be glowing like the sun. It thrilled him; it made him want to vomit.

“Get out of my way,” he grated. “I am not here for you!”

“Ah, but you are fool! Can you not feel it pulling upon you, just as it pulls upon me, drawing me here?” Ba’alzamon laughed loudly, bitterly, his face twisted in madness. “You are no more than a puppet on its strings, no more than a sword in his master’s hands! There is no escaping it, not when the very reality in which we live makes up our prison. Not unless you serve me.”

“Never!” Rand snarled. He struck at Ba’alzamon, but the black sword turned his blade in a shower of sparks. “I will never serve the Shadow!”

“Fool! Did those other fools you summoned not tell you who you are?”

Even floating in emptiness, Rand felt a chill.  _ Would they have lied? I don’t want to be the Dragon Reborn _ . He firmed his grip on his sword. Lightning of Three Prongs, but Ba’alzamon beat every cut aside, sneering at the steel that menaced his flesh as though it were no more than an irritating fly; sparks flew as from a blacksmith’s forge and hammer.

“You pitiful wretch. You have sounded the Horn of Valere. You are linked to it, now. So long as you live it will be no more than a trumpet to anyone else. Do you think the worms of the White Tower will ever release you, now? They will put chains around your neck so heavy that you will never be able to cut them.”

Rand was so surprised he felt it inside the void.  _ He doesn’t know everything. He doesn’t know! _ He was sure it must show on his face. To cover it, he rushed at Ba’alzamon. Hummingbird Kisses the Honeyrose at least forced the Forsaken to cease his ranting long enough to push the thrust away from his face. So he thrust again from The Moon on the Water.  _ He can never know it was Min. No-one can ever know. She would be a target if they did _ . Rand would sooner die than let anyone hurt her. He slashed at Ba’alzamon with The Swallow Takes Flight, lightning arching between their swords, then thrust again, driving the Forsaken back. Coruscating glitter showered the fog.

At the edge of his awareness, Rand saw the Seanchan falling back in the streets of Falme fighting desperately.  _ Damane _ tore the earth with the One Power, but it could not harm the Heroes of the Horn.

“Will you remain a slug beneath a rock, ignorant of all that happens around you?” Ba’alzamon snarled. The darkness behind him boiled and stirred. “You walk in your own footprints, slave to a path that ends in your death and degradation. I alone can free you! You kill yourself while we stand here. The Power rages in you. It burns you. It is killing you! I alone in all the world can teach you how to control it. Serve me, and live. Serve me, and die!”

“Never!” He launched himself at Ba’alzamon again, crouching low and thrusting high, The Dove Takes Flight. A similar move had felled Turak against all conventional logic but this time the risk did not pay off. Roaring in anger Ba’alzamon charged at Rand and Rand scrambled back, slipping into The Falling Leaf as he did so, the wavering movements parrying the Forsaken’s striking black blade.

Now it was he who was driven back. Dimly, he saw the Seanchan rally by the shattered gates of the city, locking their shields and bracing against the Heroes’ attack behind a wall of spears. He redoubled his efforts, striking downwards with The Kingfisher Takes a Silverback, breaking Ba’alzamon’s charge. The Seanchan gave way to another charge, Artur Hawkwing and Perrin side by side in the van. Bundling Straw proved a mistake; Ba’alzamon caught his blow in a fountain like crimson fireflies, and he had to leap away before the black sword split his head; the wind of the blow ruffled his hair. The Seanchan surged forward.

“I do not want to kill you fool!” snarled the Forsaken. “Satisfying as it would be, it would not end this farce. You would simply be reborn to do it all over again, as you have been reborn now. Reborn to kill them again, Kinslayer! Only I can stop it. Serve me!”

Ba’alzamon drew back and Rand rained overhand blows against his blade; Striking the Spark lived up to its name as sparks fell like hail from their clashing swords. Ba’alzamon hopped backwards, and the Seanchan were driven back to the cobblestone streets, many stumbling as they ran, even their rigid discipline crumbling before the attacking ghosts of legendary Heroes.

Rand wanted to howl aloud. Suddenly he knew that the two battles were linked. When he advanced, the Heroes called by the Horn drove the Seanchan back; when he fell back, the Seanchan rose up.

“They will not save you,” Ba’alzamon said. “Those who might save you will be carried far across the Aryth Ocean. If ever you see them again, they will be collared slaves, and they will destroy you for their new masters.”

_ Elayne. I can’t let them do that to her _ .

Ba’alzamon’s voice rode over his thoughts. “You have only one salvation, Rand al’Thor. Lews Therin Kinslayer. I am your only salvation. Serve me, and I will give you that which you most desire. Resist, and I will destroy you as I have so often before. But this time I will destroy you to your very soul, destroy you utterly and forever in the hope that whichever of these other fools takes up your role will be more inclined to see wisdom!”

_ You lose again, Lews Therin _ . The thought was beyond the void, yet it took an effort to ignore it, an effort not to think of all the lives where he had heard it. He shifted his sword, and Ba’alzamon braced for his attack. Rand was one with the sword. He could feel every particle of it, tiny bits a thousand times too small to be seen with the eye. And he could feel the Power that suffused him running into the sword, as well, threading through the intricate matrices wrought by Aes Sedai during the War of Power. It was another voice he heard then. Lan’s voice.  _ There will come a time when you want something more than you want life _ . Ingtar’s voice.  _ It is every man’s right to choose when to Sheathe the Sword _ . The picture formed of Elayne, collared, living her life as a  _ damane _ .  _ Threads of my life in danger _ . Before he knew it, he had taken the first position of Heron Wading in the Rushes, balanced on one foot, sword raised high, open and defenceless.  _ Death is lighter than a feather, duty heavier than a mountain _ .

Ba’alzamon stared at him. “Why are you grinning like an idiot, fool? Do you not know I can destroy you utterly?”

Rand felt a calmness beyond that of the void. “I will never serve you, Ishamael. In a thousand lives, I never have. I know that. I’m sure of it. Whatever it is you hunger for, you will never find it. Come. It is time to die.”

The ancient madman’s impossibly black eyes widened. The shadow behind him boiled up around him, and he screamed in animal fury. “Then die, worm!” He ran forwards with his sword levelled as though it were a spear.

Rand screamed as he felt it pierce his side, burning like a white-hot poker. The void trembled, but he held on with the last of his strength, and drove the heron-mark blade into Ba’alzamon’s heart. Ba’alzamon screamed, and the darkness behind him screamed, and the world exploded in fire.


	39. The Ever Victorious Army

CHAPTER 68: The Ever Victorious Army

She hurt so much that it was hard to think. Her face felt like it was on fire, there was blood in her mouth and cold muck beneath her hands. “Debatthien!” she heard the Prince call, but when she tried to raise her bow she found she was holding nothing but a little stick with a piece of string attached to it. She stared at the man standing over her, a dark-armoured man with his sword raised high.  _ I should have listened to my mother _ , she thought as the sword came slashing down.

Lace squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see her death. It came with a surprisingly loud clang she thought, considering her light leather armour. It was surprisingly painless, too; apart from the throbbing of her injured face, of course.

She opened one eye cautiously and found herself alive and ... not well, but alive was the important part.

Another man stood over her and for a moment she thought it was Prince Alasdair, but this man’s armour shone as though he had just come from a parade, rather than a raging battle. He had lost his sword somewhere, leaving him with only a shield but that was enough to stop the Seanchan’s blow. With a mere flex of his arm her saviour sent the enemy soldier flying backwards, literally and impossibly, for the Seanchan went flailing through the air to land a good twenty feet away from them. She gaped at the sight.

She gaped again when the man turned to offer her his hand, for he was the handsomest man she had ever seen and his bright blue eyes were good. “On your feet, soldier. This battle’s not won yet,” he said in a sure and certain voice.

Lace took his hand, blinking in confusion as he pulled her effortlessly back to her feet.  _ How can eyes be good _ , she thought, but somehow no other description fit.

A fog had risen across the battlefield and cries that had filled the air moments before, cries of pain from her side and cries of victory from their enemy, had now all turned to cries of shock. Her saviour gave her a thump on the shoulder once she had regained her balance and then sped off without another word.

Lace stared after him. He sped off at incredible speed, charging right into the midst of the Seanchan’s ranks, and wherever he ran enemy soldiers were sent careening through the air.  _ That’s ... impossible _ , she thought, her pain forgotten.  _ What’s happening? _

* * *

Bethamin Zeami hastened through halls of the  _ damane _ kennels, her skirts swishing before her. The battle outside the walls of the city had been well in hand when she had last looked, but the messenger who arrived asking for reinforcements had been worryingly urgent. She had no doubt that the Empire would prevail, of course, but Bethamin was determined to do her part for the glory of the Empress.

She kept her cloak pulled tightly around herself as she stretched her legs for speed. It was a cold and wet place this Falmerden. Not at all like her hometown of Abunai on the Sea of L’Heye; it was never cold there. Bethamin had not felt winter’s true touch until just after she was chosen to be  _ sul’dam _ . She hadn’t seen anyone whose skin was not a similar dark brown to own back then either, but while serving the Empire she had long since gotten used to a more varied populace. She didn’t think she would ever get used to the cold though.

It was not Seta’s paleness that took her aback when she threw open the door to the kennels, but the other woman’s tear-streaked face and the vomit on the floor before her.

Bethamin found herself staring, her purpose momentarily forgotten. She gave herself a shake. “What is wrong with you? Get up. Are there any  _ damane _ left incomplete? Mylen or Tuli perhaps? The Captain-General requests reinforcements on the front.” Pura would not be there, of course. Lisaine had taken over her training after Bethamin proved unable to force the silly girl to fight for the Empire. That still rankled with her, even though Lisaine was  _ der’sul’dam _ and had not rebuked her for her failure. When Seta just stared at her with terror-filled eyes, Bethamin snapped. “Attend to your duties, woman! Are there any more  _ dama _ ...”

She trailed off, noticing for the first time the silvery metal collar around Seta’s throat.  _ It can’t be, she is  _ sul’dam _ ... like me _ .

“Take it off me,” Seta gasped desperately. “Take it off me before anyone sees us.”

Bethamin backed away. “Us?” she choked. She wanted to deny what her eyes were seeing, but how many times before had she seen a new  _ damane _ try to claw off their  _ a’dam _ and suffer for it?  _ Sul’dam _ couldn’t be  _ damane _ !  _ She _ couldn’t be  _ damane! _ Panic brought a flush to her face as her denials rang hollow in her own ears.

“Please, Bethamin!”

Her shoulders thumped against the door of the kennel and Bethamin jumped. She might have tried to free Seta then, for old time’s sake. She might have summoned the guards or rushed to join the battle outside, for the glory of the Empire. She did none of those things. Bethamin gathered her blue and red skirts and ran for the exit as fast as her feet could carry her. At that moment she didn’t think she would stop running until there was a whole continent between her and any other  _ sul’dam _ .

* * *

The damned fog make it hard to aim, but Nafanyel managed to put one through the neck of the officer anyway. He assumed it was an officer at least, judging by the coloured plumes that rose from the man’s helmet.

His target fell and the guards spun about with their swords in hand, shouting angrily. The fog made it easier to hide, too. He was glad of it as he scuttled away. Burn his eyes if he could explain why he bothered coming to this slaughter though. It wasn’t as if one more bow would ever have made a difference. And it wasn’t as though he could ever have shown his face to his fellow Falmerans. How could he gamble that they would not know what his father had done? What Nafanyel had helped him do. Grimacing, ears pricked, he stalked through the fog in search of another likely target.

Panicked shouts seemed to come from all around but Nafanyel kept to the hills, apart from both armies. Alone.

Soon he spotted another group of Seanchan, with another plumed helmet in their midst. This group had one of those damned  _ damane _ with them. His lips twisted and he gave serious thought to sneaking on by, but those things—he hesitated to call them women—had already killed thousands of his countrymen today.

He knew his mother would never have approved. Most folk wouldn’t. But Nafanyel raised his bow and sighted on the  _ damane _ . An image came into his mind, an image of Lady Eleanor sprawled on her bed, soiled and murdered. At the last second, Nafanyel switched his aim to the Seanchan officer and loosed.

His aim was true. The man fell and the Seanchan around him wheeled, searching for the assassin in their midst.

Abruptly someone alighted on the hill right beside the spot where Nafanyel crouched. He bared his teeth and fumbled for a knife.  _ How did I let them get so close? _ were what he feared would be his last thoughts.

“Not bad,” said the golden-haired woman, judiciously. Her long braid hung to her waist and she was stunningly beautiful. Even more stunning was the tall bow she held in her hands. It shone brighter than even polished silver had a right to shine. A silver bow ... old stories rushed through Nafanyel’s thoughts, tales he had heard when he was a boy.

The Seanchan below spotted the archers through the fog and the woman in the red and blue dress pointed angrily their way.

His strange visitor’s silver bow was raised instantly, an equally silver arrow appeared at its centre as though simply willed there. It flew beautifully and where it struck the Seanchan were no more. The Seanchan and most of the land on which they had stood. Dirt cascaded through the air and rained down around them, pelting Nafanyel but not the woman with the silver bow. The Seanchan, soldiers and  _ damane _ alike, had not even had time to scream.

Nafanyel found himself staring at the bow in his hands. It seemed a silly little thing suddenly. He felt like he was a little boy again.

“Birgitte Silverbow?” he said hesitantly.

The ghost grinned at him. “That’s what they called me last time.” Then she was gone, jumping from his hill to the next one over as easily as he might skip across a narrow stream. Nafanyel stared after her, his past and his bow temporarily forgotten.

* * *

The man wore no armour. He was almost naked in fact save for a rough loincloth, yet nothing seemed to harm him. Fire or lightning, sword or arrow, the hugely muscled man shrugged them all off as he waded amidst the ranks of Kennar’s army, swinging his brutal, two-handed sword, slaying all around him. Grim-faced, with long black hair and a heavy, brooding brow, his near-nudity would not have been enough to make him less intimidating even if he was not busy slaughtering men by the dozen.

Kennar struggled to keep his face impassive as he watched the catastrophe unfold before him. They had been winning the battle until these strangely-dressed reinforcements arrived, but now the tide had turned completely against them. He had thrown everything he had at the new enemy but nothing seemed to stop them.

He watched his  _ raken _ tumble from the sky, their riders thrown clear and left to embrace the long fall that Kennar had so often imagined in his youth. The thing that had shot them down was beyond his understanding. A metal creature that looked far too heavy to fly and yet moved through the air at speeds that made a  _ raken _ seem like a winged turtle.

Even more terrible were the giants fighting in the sky above, beyond even the  _ raken _ and backed by a white banner on which rode a strange red-and-gold creature which would have looked like a snake, if snakes had manes and four small, clawed legs. One of the giants was young and red-haired, the other dark and mature. Their faces were angry and their lips moved as if they argued but no sound reached those on the ground beneath them save the deafening thunder that shook Toman Head with each strike of their swords. The men, if men they were, moved with exaggerated slowness, as though the Wheel of Time itself turned differently around them. Kennar had no idea what they were fighting over, or what would happen if one of them prevailed and then turned his wrath on the Seanchan.

He glanced to his side. Karede’s face was as bluff as ever, a slight tightening around the eyes was the only sign of his reaction to what was happening. He was of the Deathwatch Guard, the Empress’ personal property, her swords. If Kennar gave the order that he knew he must, he suspected Karede would be the one to kill him. He doubted he would be afforded the luxury of asking the Empress for permission to take his own life. Yet Kennar was not a vain man, and the welfare of the Empire and its soldiers came before his life or pride.

“Fall back to the city,” he ordered. Every one of the clerks around him drew deep breaths and held them. “Have the  _ damane _ and the other exotics disengage first.” They were the rarest, and most irreplaceable parts of the Ever Victorious Army. He had to save as many of them as he could. “Carry my orders to Captains Bakuun, Nadoc and Kakuzu. They are to engage the enemy in a chequered retreat and delay them as long as possible while our forces withdraw to Falme’s walls.”

Discipline was strong among them. Few hesitated more than a moment before penning his orders for delivery by the waiting runners. Withdrawal.  _ To think that I would live to see the day when the Ever Victorious Army retreated. To think that I would live to bear the shame of being the one to give the order _ . Kennar doubted he would ever be  _ sei’taer _ again.

* * *

Alasdair was lost. Lost in the fog, and very much afraid that he had lost his mind.

He staggered towards Falme on shaking legs, with his sword hanging at his side. In the space of moments he had seen certain defeat turn to impossible victory. Even more insane was that he thought he recognised some of their saviours. They looked very much like the descriptions he had read of various historical figures, heroes who were long dead. But that couldn’t be so. His father’s death must have robbed him of his wits.

The Seanchan had been driven all the way back to Falme’s walls. Walls that now loomed out of the mists ahead. Alasdair made his way towards them. If his sister was still alive she would be in the city somewhere, probably held inside the Divalaird where his mother had once held court, before the Seanchan took her from him, too.

Thunder crashed again and against his will he looked up. The terrible giants fought on, blazoned across the sky for all to see. Alasdair didn’t know which of them, if any, he wanted to win. The younger one pressed the attack and suddenly a great roar went up from the city gate ahead. Stone crumbled and the defenders were thrown back. The ghostly attackers poured into the gap, and Alasdair stumbled along in their wake.

Broken bricks and broken bodies littered the ground as he returned to his home city for the first time in half a year. From the hill he could see down to the familiar docks where unfamiliar ships were raising sail. A steady stream of people rushed towards those ships. Seanchan he thought, fleeing from an enemy they could not defeat.

“I fled like that once,” a voice mused, in an accent he did not recognise.

Alasdair stared at the beautiful, olive-skinned woman who now stood beside him, looking down on the docks. Woven within her black hair was an elaborate golden net that almost looked like a crown, and she wore a suit of golden scales. The spear she carried was taller than she was.

“It seems cruel to strike them as they run,” she continued. “But fate is rarely kind and those who work the Pattern’s will, though some call us Heroes, are often required to do, or endure, terrible things.”

“I don’t understand,” he whispered.

The woman ignored him. He thought she might not even have been speaking to him, though there was no-one else nearby. She smiled sadly and hefted her spear, then took a single step forward and threw. The spear arched out, flying down towards the ships below. They seemed so small, almost impossible to hit from that range, but the woman’s spear struck true and a Seanchan ship reeled under its impact. As he watched, the vessel began taking on water and listed to its side. Alasdair shivered and looked at the strange woman out of the corner of his eye. There was another spear in her hand, though she had only been carrying one a moment ago. He breathed a sigh of relief when she strolled away without saying, or doing, more.

“Strange friends you’ve been keeping,” said a slightly shaky, but blessedly familiar, voice.

Alasdair spun to face her, smiling for the first time in what felt like forever.

Evelin emerged from a nearby house looking dishevelled but unharmed. He ran to embrace her and for once didn’t mind that extra inch of height his “little” sister had on him. He hugged her hard and she hugged him back as though trying to crack his ribs. He was grateful for his armour and even more grateful that fate had, despite the spear-wielder’s grim musings, been kind enough to return her to him.

“These aren’t my friends,” Alasdair choked. “I don’t know where they came from, or what they want. But at least they’re fighting the Seanchan. Without them ...”

Evelin looked up at the giants in the sky. “I think they are friends,” she said quietly.

“Frightening friends if so,” he said.

“No. Magnificent ones,” she whispered with a strange look in her usually stern blue eyes.

Evelin and Alasdair looked nothing alike, other than possibly their cheekbones. He knew there were rumours about their mother, and people who called Evelin “the Bastard” behind her back. But that didn’t matter to him, she would inherit the throne from their mother after all and that was one half of her parentage that could never be denied. He didn’t think it had mattered to his father either. If Kaelan had believed the rumours, he had never shown any sign or it, or treated Evelin any differently than he did Alasdair.

“Evelin,” he began hesitantly. “I ... have some terrible news.”

She closed her eyes. Firmed her jaw. “Tell me.”

“It’s Father. In the battle outside the walls ... The Seanchan were so many ... Their  _ damane _ , their monsters. We lost a lot of good people. Including the King. He’s gone, Evelin.” Anguish turned to anger inside him. “And Syoman abandoned us. Fled the field and left us all to die. Why would he do that? He just betrayed his own king. If the ladies and lords knew what he’d done they would call for his execution.”

“Dead,” Evelin sighed. “I feared that was what you would say. All of Falmeran is bleeding it seems. But Syoman a traitor? That’s nearly as bad. We will have to make him answer for that. Somehow.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “Was it quick at least?”

“It was,” said Alasdair sadly. The prince and princess held each other in the ruins of their city as chaos reigned around them.

* * *

The Deathwatch Guard would be among the last to leave. That was as it should be, but it was one of the few things about which that might be said. Alin couldn’t really fault Miraj, though the man’s eyes would be lowered greatly over this. Defeated by these honourless oathbreakers? If it were up to Alin Cergiel he would draw his sword and charge them, one opponent, ten, a hundred, whatever it took, rather than board the waiting ship and accept this disgrace. But it was not up to him. He was the property of the Crystal Throne, and his life was the Empress’ to dispose of, not his.

Their escort spoke again. “Freedom is never dear at any price. It is the breath of life. What would a man not pay for living?”

Karede ignored the spindly old man in his blanket and sandals, and the rest of the Deathwatch followed Karede’s example, though the spirit’s insults still grated.

Aramas had attempted to cut the man down the first time he had insulted the Empress.

“It has always been a mystery to me how people can feel themselves honoured by the humiliation of their fellow beings,” the man had claimed as he watched  _ damane _ being led onto the ship. “You should abandon the tyrant you serve. She harms you as much as she harms those she sends you to slay.”

Like Alin, Aramas was a blademaster and his drawcut was as quick as a striking viper. The old man ignored it completely. Like the rest of these half-recognised spectres he was invulnerable to any weapon wielded by mortal man. Alin was not afraid to die in the service of the Empress—may she live forever—but he had never encountered an enemy who tried to preach him to death before. He almost wished the man would attack them properly but his only response to Aramas’ strike had been a sad shake of his head. “Nonviolence is the first article of my faith,” he had claimed.

Alin wondered what the man would do if he turned around and began working a bloody justice on the skulking oathbreakers who watched from their windows as the Seanchan retreated, their glee barely concealed. None of them had had the honour or the courage to show that glee before today. The insult of it made him grind his teeth.

Defeat and disgrace was all around them. When they had learned of the High Lord Turak’s murder, Karede had grimaced and briefly closed his eyes. From him that was the equivalent of another man falling to his knees and shouting at the heavens. The Deathwatch had failed to protect the man they had been sent to protect and for that they would have to answer to the Empress—may she live forever.

Their escort walked with them to the docks, where streams of Seanchan settlers still flowed towards the waiting ships. They were the lucky ones, the rest would be left behind in this twisted land, surrounded by people who hated them. Alin was glad Rikku had not been part of the  _ Hailene _ . It would have grieved him greatly to have to leave her behind. She was a more than capable fighter, but no-one could stand forever against so many foes. Thankfully she had not been assigned to the Forerunners, sent to scout the way, but would instead arrive with the Return.

If there was one comfort to be found in this debacle it was that. When the  _ Corenne _ landed in force all these lands would be brought back into the Empire. And every insult that had been done the great Hawkwing and his descendant the Empress—may she live forever—would be answered tenfold.


	40. First Claim

CHAPTER 69: First Claim

Min struggled up the cobblestone street, clutching the Horn of Valere to her breast and shouldering through crowds that stood white-faced and staring, those who were not screaming hysterically. A few ran, seemingly without any idea of where they were running, but most moved like poorly handled puppets, more afraid to go than to stay. She searched the faces, hoping to find Elayne but all she saw were Falmerans. And there was something drawing her on, as surely as if she had a string tied to her.

The fog had mostly faded now and Rand wasn’t pretending to be a giant anymore. She hadn’t seen the entirety of his fight with the dark-eyed man, or how it had ended. She only knew that there had come a crack of thunder even louder than the rest and suddenly Rand wasn’t in the sky anymore. So much had been happening all around that she had struggled to get a good look. With Rand fighting above her, Karna of Anga fighting to her left, Ceegar the Invincible to her right, Jearom straight ahead and so many others all around it had been a struggle to know who to stare at. Most of the Heroes had dispersed to fight alone and she had lost track of her mortal companions in the fog and the chaos.

That indescribable something pulled her onwards and Min felt as powerless to stop herself as a leaf was powerless to prevent itself from floating downstream. Once she turned to look back. Seanchan ships burned in the harbour, and she could see more inflames off the harbour mouth. Many squarish vessels were already small against the setting sun, sailing west as fast as  _ damane _ could make the winds drive them, and one small ship was beating away from the harbour, tilting to catch a wind to take it along the coast.  _ Spray _ . She did not blame Bayle Domon for not waiting. She hoped she never saw him again, and that no-one ever learned of the deal she had been willing to make. There was one Seanchan vessel in the harbour not burning, though its towers were black from fires already extinguished. As the tall ship crept toward the harbour mouth, a figure on horseback suddenly appeared around the cliffs skirting the harbour. Riding across the water. Min’s mouth fell open. A flag flew from a staff attach to the horses saddle and on the flag was a creature similar to the red-and-gold snake on the banner Rand had produced, though this snake was silver and the background black. It tickled a memory of something she had read, she thought it might be the flag of one of the old Borderland nations, from before the Trolloc Wars.  _ Aramaelle? Could that be Minna Surik, the Saviour of Aramaelle? _ The figure raised her bow; a streak of fire lanced to the boxy ship, a gleaming line connecting bow and ship. With a roar she could hear even at that distance, fire engulfed the foretower anew, and sailors rushed about the deck. Min blinked, and when she looked again, the mounted figure was gone. The ship still slowly made way toward the ocean, the crew fighting the flames.

She gave herself a shake and started to climb the street again. She had seen too much that day for someone riding a horse across water to be more than a momentary distraction. Even if it really was Minna. And Artur Hawkwing.  _ I did meet him. I did _ .

In front of one of the tall stone buildings, she stopped uncertainly, ignoring the people who brushed past her as if stunned. It was in there, somewhere, that she had to go. She rushed up the stairs and pushed open the door.

No-one tried to stop her. As far as she could tell, there was no-one in the house. Most of Falme was out in the streets, trying to decide whether they had all gone mad together. She went on through the house, into the garden behind, and there he was.

Rand lay sprawled on his back under an oak, face pale and eyes closed, left hand gripping a hilt that ended in a foot of blade that appeared to have been melted at the end. His chest rose and fell too slowly, and not with the regular rhythm of someone breathing normally.

Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she went to see what she could do for him. First was to get rid of that stub of a blade; he could hurt himself, or her, if he started thrashing. She set the Horn down and pried his hand open, wincing when the hilt stuck to his palm. She tossed it aside with a grimace. The heron on the hilt had branded itself into his hand. But it was obvious to her that that was not what had him lying there unconscious. A hasty examination showed that most of his cuts and bruises were not new—at least, the blood had had time to dry in a crust, and the bruises had started to turn yellow at the edges—but there was a hole burned through his dark coat on the left side. Opening his coat, she pulled up his shirt. Breath whistled through her teeth. There was a wound burned into his side, but it had cauterized itself. What shook her was the feel of his flesh. It had a touch of ice in it; he made the air seem warm.

Grabbing his shoulders, she began to drag him toward the house. He hung limp, a dead weight. “Great lummox,” she grunted. “You couldn’t be short, and light, could you? You have to have all that leg and shoulder. I ought to let you lie out here.”

But she struggled up the steps, careful not to bump him any more than she could avoid, and pulled him inside. Leaving him just within the door, she knuckled the small of her back, muttering to herself about the Pattern. Then she recovered the Horn and made a hasty search. There was a small bedroom in the back of the house, perhaps a servant’s room, with a bed piled high with blankets, and logs already laid on the hearth. In moments, she had the blankets thrown back and the fire lit, as well as a lamp on the bedside table. Then she went back for Rand.

It was no small task getting him to the room, or up onto the bed, but she managed it with only a little hard breathing, and covered him up. After a moment, she stuck a hand under the blankets; she winced and shook her head. The sheets were icy cold; he had no body warmth for the blankets to hold. With a put-upon sigh, she wriggled under the covers beside him. Finally, she put his head on her arm. His eyes were still closed, his breathing ragged, but she thought he would be dead by the time she came back if she left to find a healer.  _ He needs an Aes Sedai _ , she thought.  _ All I can do is try to give him a little warmth _ .

For a time she studied his face. It was only his face she saw; she could never read anyone who was not conscious. “I like older men,” she told him. “I like men with education, and wit. I have no interest in farms, or sheep, or shepherds. Especially boy shepherds.” With a sigh, she smoothed back the hair from his face; he had silky hair. “But then, you aren’t a shepherd, are you? Not anymore. Light, why did the Pattern have to catch me up with you? Why couldn’t I have something safe and simple, like being shipwrecked with no food and a dozen hungry Aielmen? Instead of being tied to Rand al’Thor, the … whatever you are.”

“Not Rand al’Thor,” said a musical voice from the door. “Lews Therin Telamon. The Dragon Reborn.”

Min stared. She was the most beautiful woman Min had ever seen, with pale, smooth skin, long, dark hair, and eyes as dark as night. Her dress was a white that would make snow seem dingy, belted in silver. All her jewellery was silver. Min felt herself bristle. “What do you mean? Who are you?”

The woman came to stand over the bed—her movements were so graceful Min felt a stab of envy, though she had never before envied any woman anything—and smoothed Rand’s hair as if Min were not there. “He doesn’t believe yet, I think. He knows, but he does not believe. I have guided his steps, pushed him, pulled him, enticed him. He was always stubborn, but this time I will make him see the truth. Ishamael thinks he controls events, but I do.” Her finger brushed Rand’s forehead as if drawing a mark; Min thought uneasily that it looked like the Dragon’s Fang. Rand stirred, murmuring, the first sound or movement he had made since she found him.

“Who are you?” Min demanded. The woman looked at her, only looked, but she found herself shrinking back into the pillows, clutching Rand to her fiercely. To Min’s eyes, thick chains seemed to swirl around the stranger and a key was in her hand, but Min did not know who the chains were meant for.

“I am called Lanfear, girl.”

Min’s mouth was abruptly so dry she could not have spoken if her life depended on it.  _ One of the Forsaken! No! Light, no!  _ All she could do was shake her head. The denial made Lanfear smile.

“I suppose you are not utterly without appeal. In a scruffy sort of way,” said the Forsaken as she scrutinised Min’s face, her dark eyes full of confidence. “I could kill you here and now ...” She paused for a moment, savouring the fear that Min could not hide. “But what would that accomplish really? He has always had a roving eye. He may dandle you for a time but you could never be my rival, you could never take his heart from me. Even that chit Ilyena never truly managed it, whatever she believed.” For a second the woman’s beautiful mask slipped and anger twisted her features to ugliness. But only for a second, then she was all poise once more. “Lews Therin was and is and always will be mine, girl. Tend him well for me until I come for him.” And she was gone. Min gaped. One moment she was there, then she was gone. Min discovered she was hugging Rand’s unconscious form tightly. She wished she did not feel as if she wanted him to protect her.

There was a sound in the hall. Min raised her head and stared at the door, afraid that the Forsaken had returned. Someone rattled the handle on the door and Min held her breath as it swung slowly open. Nynaeve stood there, staring at them by the light of the fire and the lamp. Somehow, after everything that had happened today, Min wasn’t even surprised to see her. “Oh,” was all Nynaeve said.

Min’s cheeks coloured.  _ Why am I behaving like I’ve done something wrong? Fool! _ “I-I’m keeping him warm. He is unconscious, and he’s as cold as ice.”

Nynaeve shook herself and marched determinedly into the room. “I felt him pulling at me. Needing me. I thought it must be something to do with—with what he is.” She drew a deep, unsteady breath. She didn’t remove the blankets to examine Rand, but instead simply placed her hands on his chest and closed her eyes. She began to mutter angrily. “Damned Moiraine, and Seanchan and Trollocs. Damned Pattern. First Egwene and now this? They’re trying to take them all away from me. Well I won’t have it. They’re my people, my responsibility.” Nynaeve opened her eyes and glared at Rand’s sleeping face, as though trying to intimidate him into healthiness. The former Wisdom was using the One Power, Min knew, though she could see nothing of what Nynaeve was doing with it, of course. Whatever she did it made Rand shudder in Min’s arms, but when he lay still once more he did not feel quite so icy cold.

Nynaeve gaped, her hand sliding down to probe gently at Rand’s side, where the cauterised wound Min had seen earlier had been. “It didn’t work.” Her voice was faint and her cheeks paled.

“What’s wrong? Can’t you heal him?”

“Mostly. But that wound in his side, it resisted  _ saidar  _ …” Nynaeve tugged at her braid angrily, staring at Rand’s prone form. Then she set her jaw and turned to Min with a determined look in her eyes. “The Seanchan left most of their horses behind; I don’t mind at all taking the poor beasts from them either, it’s less like stealing and more like liberating. We should go as soon as we can. Min, you know what he is now, don’t you?”

“I know.” Min wanted to take her arm from under Rand’s head, but she could not make herself move. “Whatever he is, he is hurt. And I feel … I feel as if he needs me somehow. It’s strange ...”

“Min, you know he cannot marry. He isn’t … safe … for any of us, Min.” Nynaeve’s cheeks coloured and she tugged her braid. “For any of you I mean.”

_ A roving eye huh? _ Min wasn’t completely surprised, she had suspected there was something more than friendly in the way Nynaeve spoke of him. “Speak for yourself,” she said. She pulled Rand’s face against her breast. Nynaeve looked at her for what seemed a long time. Not at Rand, not at all, only at her. She felt her face growing hotter and wanted to look away, but she could not.

“I’ll bring the others, we’ll need help moving him.” Nynaeve said finally, and marched out of the room with her back straight.

Min wanted to call out, to go after her, but she lay there as if frozen. Frustrated tears stung her eyes.  _ It’s what has to be. I know it. I read it in all of them. Light, I don’t want to be part of this _ . But whatever it was that pulled at her mind, her heart, perhaps her soul even, was so strong that if he were to wake and start pulling at her clothes she didn’t think she could stop him, or remember that she wanted to stop him.

“It’s all your fault,” she told Rand’s still shape. “No, it isn’t. I doubt you wanted any of this to happen. Still. We’re all caught like flies in a spiderweb. What if I told her there’s another woman yet to come, one she doesn’t even know? For that matter, what would you think of that, my fine Lord Shepherd? You aren’t bad-looking at all, but … Light, I don’t even know if I am the one you’ll choose. I don’t know if I want you to choose me. Or will you try to dandle all of us on your knee? I wouldn’t mind that if it was just Elayne, but ... It may not be your fault, Rand al’Thor, but it certainly isn’t fair.”


	41. What Was Meant to Be

CHAPTER 70: What Was Meant to Be

Rand opened his eyes and found himself staring up at sunlight slanting through the branches of a leatherleaf, its broad, tough leaves still green despite the time of year. The wind stirring the leaves carried a hint of snow, come nightfall. He lay on his back, and he could feel blankets covering him under his hands. His coat and shirt seemed to be gone, but something was binding his chest, and his left side hurt. He turned his head, and Min was sitting there on the ground, watching him. She smiled uncertainly.

“Min. Where are we?” His memory came in flashes and patches. Old things he could remember, but the last few days seemed like bits of broken mirror, spinning through his mind, showing glimpses that were gone before he could see them clearly.

“We’re five days east of Falme, now, and you’ve been asleep all that time,” she said.

“Falme.” More memory. Min had blown the Horn of Valere. Elayne had been captured by the  _ sul’dam _ . “Elayne! Is she safe?” He struggled to sit up, but she pushed him back down easily and stayed there, hands on his shoulders, eyes intent on his face. “Where is she?”

“Near.” Min’s face coloured. “They’re all here. Elayne, and Nynaeve, and Perrin, and Hurin, and Tomas. Anna and your Shienaran friends are here, too. And the Ogier.” She shook her head. “You meet the strangest people, sheepherder.”

“Nynaeve,” he sighed. “I can’t believe she’d just show up here, too, so far away from ... anything. It’s such a strange coincidence.” The red in Min’s cheeks deepened and she sat back, staring at her lap.

Another memory swam into focus, Ba’alzamon ranting about the Horn and thinking it was bound to Rand. He seized Min by the collar of her dress and urgently pulled her face close to his. She gasped and her eyes went very wide. “The Horn, Min,” he hissed. “Ba’alzamon thought I sounded it, he said it was bound to me now, that it would be useless to anyone else so long as I live. But it’s you that it’s bound to. You have to be careful. If they find out it was you you’ll become a target. They might kill you so they could claim it for themselves. Don’t tell anyone about it if you don’t have to.”

“I wasn’t planning to go around telling everyone I meet,” Min muttered. She took hold of his wrist and he hastily released his grip on her collar. He hadn’t meant to be so rough.

He raised his hands to run them over his face, and stopped, staring at his palms in shock. There was a heron branded across his left palm, too, now, to match the one on his right, every line clean and true.  _ Once the heron to set his path; Twice the heron to name him true _ . “No,” he whispered. More memories returned. Artur Hawkwing. The Heroes of the Horn. The things they had said to, and about, him. “No!” But his denials rang hollow even in his own ears.

“ ‘No’ what?” Min asked, looking askance at him.

He shook his head. Something told him the pain in his side was important. He could not remember being injured, but it was important. He started to lift his blankets to look, but she slapped his hands away.

“You can’t do any good with that. It isn’t healed all the way, yet. Nynaeve tried Healing, but she said it didn’t work the way it should.” She hesitated, nibbling her lip. “Moiraine says there is ... something wrong with your wound. You will have to wait for it to heal naturally.” She seemed troubled.

“Moiraine is here, too?” He barked a bitter laugh. “So much for leaving me in peace.”

“I am here,” Moiraine said. She appeared, all in blue and as serene as if she stood in the White Tower, strolling up to stand over him. He wondered how long she had been listening, and if she had been following him all this time. Min was frowning at the Aes Sedai. Rand had the odd feeling that she meant to protect him from Moiraine.

“I wish you weren’t here,” he told the Aes Sedai. “As far as I am concerned, you can go back to wherever you’ve been hiding and stay there.”

“I have not been hiding,” Moiraine said calmly. “I have been doing what I could, here on Toman Head, and in Falme. It was little enough, for I arrived too late, but I learned much. I failed to rescue two of my sister before the Seanchan herded them onto the ships with the Leashed Ones, but I did what I could.”

“What you could. You sent Verin to shepherd me, but I’m no sheep, Moiraine. You said I could go where I wanted, and I mean to go where you are not.”

“I did not send Verin.” Moiraine frowned. “She did that on her own. You are of interest to a great many people, Rand. Did Fain find you, or you him?”

The sudden change of topic took him by surprise. “Fain? No. A fine hero I make. Fain said he would hurt Emond’s Field if I didn’t face him, and I never laid eyes on him. Did he go with the Seanchan, too?”

Moiraine shook her head. “I do not know. I wish I did. But it is as well you did not find him, no until you know what he is, at least.”

“He’s a Darkfriend.”

“More than that. Worse than that. Padan Fain was the Dark One’s creature to the depths of his soul, but I believe that in Shadar Logoth he fell afoul of Mordeth, who was as vile in fighting the Shadow as ever the Shadow itself was. Mordeth tried to consume Fain’s soul, to have a human body again, but found a soul that had been touched directly by the Dark One, and what resulted ... What resulted was neither Padan Fain nor Mordeth, but something far more evil, a blend of the two. Fain— let us call him that—is more dangerous than you can believe. You might not have survived such a meeting, and if you had, you might have been worse than turned to the Shadow.”

“If he is alive, if he did not go with the Seanchan, I have to—” He cut off as she produced his heron-mark sword from under her cloak. The blade ended abruptly a foot from the hilt, as if it had been melted. Memory came crashing back. “I killed him,” he said softly. “I killed Ba’alzamon.”

Moiraine threw the ruined sword into a nearby ditch, discarding Tam’s gift like the useless thing it now was, and wiped her hands together with an air of finality. “The Dark One is not slain so easily. The mere fact that he appeared in the sky above Falme is more than merely troubling. He should not be able to do that, if he is bound as we believe. And if he is not, why has he not destroyed us all?” Min stirred uneasily.

“He wasn’t the Dark One,” said Rand. “He was Ishamael the Forsaken and he claimed he had never been bound.”

“A wild ... and troubling claim,” Moiraine said.

“Wait, what was that you said before. In the sky?”

“Both of you,” Moiraine said. “Your battle took place across the sky, in full view of every soul in Falme. Perhaps all across Toman Head, too, if half what I hear is to be believed.”

“We—we saw it all,” Min said in a faint voice. She put a hand over one of Rand’s comfortingly. Moiraine reached under her cloak again and came out with a rolled parchment, one of the large sheets such as the street artists in Falme used. The chalks were a little smudged when she unfurled it, but the picture was still clear enough. Two men in black coats fought with swords among clouds where lightning danced, and behind them rippled the Dragon banner. Rand’s face was easily recognizable.

“How many have seen that?” he demanded. “Tear it up. Burn it.”

The Aes Sedai let the parchment roll back up. “It would do no good, Rand. I bought that two days gone, in a village we passed through. After what I found in Falme I deemed it best we leave swiftly and quietly, before someone recognised you and took precipitate action. But still the rumours outrace us. There are hundreds of these drawings, perhaps thousands, and the tale is being told everywhere of how the Dragon battled the Dark One in the skies above Falme.”

Rand looked at Min. She nodded reluctantly, and squeezed his hand. She looked frightened, but she did not flinch away.

“The Pattern weaves itself around you even more tightly,” Moiraine said. “You need me now more than ever.”

“I don’t need you,” he said harshly, “and I don’t want you. I will not have anything to do with this.” He remembered being called Lews Therin; not only by Ba’alzamon, but by Artur Hawkwing. “I won’t. Light, the Dragon is supposed to Break the World again, to tear everything apart, to kill everyone he cares about. I will not be the Dragon, I’d sooner die.”

Moiraine was unmoved, implacable. “You are what you are. Already you stir the world. The Black Ajah has revealed itself for the first time in two thousand years. Arad Doman and Amadicia were on the brink of war, and it will be worse when news of Falme reaches them. Cairhien is already in civil war.”

“I did nothing in Cairhien,” he protested. “You can’t blame that on me.”

“Doing nothing was always a ploy in the Great Game,” Moiraine said with a sigh, “and especially as they play it now. You were the spark, and Cairhien exploded like an Illuminator’s firework. What do you think will happen when word of Falme reaches Arad Doman and Amadicia? There have always been men willing to proclaim for any man who called himself the Dragon, but they have never before had such signs as this. There is more. At the Eye of the World we found the broken fragments of one of the Seals on the Dark One’s prison.” Min gasped; her grip on his hand sought comfort, now, rather than offering it. He wrapped his fingers around hers half-unconsciously. Moiraine spoke on. “When all seven are broken, perhaps even before, the patch men put over the hole they drilled into the prison the Creator made will be torn asunder, and the Dark One will once more be able to put his hand through that hole and touch the world. And the only hope of salvation is that the Dragon Reborn will be there to face him.”

Min tried to stop Rand from throwing back the blankets, but he pushed her gently aside. “I need to walk.” She helped him up, but with a great many sighs and grumbles about him making his wound worse. He discovered that his chest was wrapped round with bandages. Min draped one of the blankets about his shoulders like a cloak.

For a moment he stood staring down at the heron-mark sword, what was left of it, lying in the ditch. Tam’s sword.  _ My father’s sword _ . Reluctantly, more reluctantly than he had ever done anything in his life, he let go of the hope that he would discover Tam really was his father. It felt as if he were tearing his heart out. But it did not change the way he felt about Tam, and Emond’s Field was the only home he had ever known.  _ Fain is the important thing. I have one duty left. Stopping him _ .

His legs were unsteady, but Min’s shoulder under his arm offered support. Rand tried not to lean on her too heavily as he surveyed the camp around them. They were within a large copse not far from a road of hard-packed dirt. Lan sat under a nearby tree sharpening his belt knife; the Warder gave Rand a careful look, then a nod. Those Shienarans not on sentry duty were gathered around several campfires, making preparations for their evening meal. He saw Perrin sitting by one such fire, staring into the flames with a melancholy air about him, and Loial was at his side, reading a book. Beyond them, Nynaeve and Verin stood at the foot of an unhitched wagon, animatedly discussing the wrapped bundles within. He spotted Anna patrolling the edge of the camp, bow in hand, eyes turned outward. They had laid Rand out in a small clearing, and ensured that no-one was too near.  _ Are they afraid of me? If it’s true, if I am the Dragon Reborn… then they would be right to avoid me _ .

“I am glad to see you back on your feet, Rand,” said a girl’s high voice as he tottered towards the fires. He turned his head toward the sound and discovered the Daughter-Heir of Andor sitting on a log not too far from his resting place—and very, very far from her mother’s palace in Caemlyn. He’d have to be certain to share stories with her and the others when they got time. She was wearing a dark green riding dress and her red-gold curls contrasted against it quite fetchingly. “I can still call you Rand, I trust?”

“Of course, my Lady.”

Her smile had more than a hint of wariness to it, but he thought it gracious of her to force one at all. “Then surely you should call me Elayne in return.”

“I’m not sure that would be appropriate, my Lady,” Rand said slowly.

She raised her chin at that. “If you call me that again, I shall call you my Lord Dragon. And curtsy. Even the Queen of Andor might curtsy to the Dragon Reborn, and I am only Daughter-Heir.” Her voice had taken on a severe quality that would be well suited to passing sentence on someone, but Rand had the feeling she was making fun of him.

“Light! Don’t do that.” The Dragon Reborn. What did it mean? What would he have to do? Defeat the Dark One, but how?  _ I don’t know what I’m doing, I can’t be what they want me to be. I’m just a shepherd _ .

“I will not, Rand,” she said in a more reasonable voice. “If you call me by my name. Elayne. Say it.”

Rand stared at her. When he had first met the Daughter-Heir, after falling into the garden of her palace, he had come away thinking her an odd combination of bossy and big-hearted. Not unlike Nynaeve in fact, though the two women could not have appeared more dissimilar. She had tended to the cuts he had taken in his fall, and smoothed over the trouble he got into with her mother after being caught trespassing by the Queen’s Guards. And now, she seemed to be offering her friendship, despite everything that had happened at Falme. “Elayne,” he said, feeling oddly moved by the gesture.

She smiled brightly. “Good.”

Rand was glad she could still smile like that after what she had been through with the Seanchan. He bit his lip, wondering it would be worse to raise the topic, or worse to ignore it as if it didn’t matter. “I hope you’re feeling okay, Elayne,” he began, his words weighted with uncertainty. “What happened in Falme can’t have been a pleasant experience; I’m sorry you had to go through it.”

Min, who had watched their exchange with a wry smile on her face, now  _ tsked _ loudly and poked Rand in the ribs. “Have some tact, sheepherder. Elayne doesn’t want to talk about that right now.”

Elayne rose from her woodland throne and brushed off her skirts. She was composed, but her composure seemed a carefully arranged thing. “It is quite alright Min, though I thank you for your concern. Both of you. Falme was, as you said, Rand, an unpleasant experience, for all of us. But I shall be well, I assure you.”

Pursing her lips, Elayne regarded him speculatively. “I can’t help but notice you’ve lost your father’s sword. You seemed quite attached to it when we first met. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather keep it, damaged or otherwise?” There was wariness in her voice, as though she wondered whether she should raise the topic or not.

Rand looked back the way he’d come. Moiraine was standing beside Lan, seemingly discussing something with her Warder. But the flat look she now sent Elayne told him the Aes Sedai had been listening to every word they’d exchanged.

“Actually I would like to keep it,” he said softly. “But I don’t think Tam is my real father. Not by blood at least. And maybe that’s for the best. Anything that distances him from the likes of me can only be for the good.”

Elayne looked troubled. “I ... see. Well, that sounds like something you should discuss with him,” she said, in a careful voice. “Until then, however …” Elayne took Rand’s other arm in a light grip and changed his course. Supported by the two women, he tottered back towards the small ditch his past had been discarded in.

Moiraine watched them come with an expressionless face, but disapproval radiated from her. Rand ignored it. Climbing down to reclaim Tam’s sword was going to be difficult, but he’d crawl out of that ditch if he had to. He thought he saw a nod of approval from Lan, but when he glanced at the man, his face was as inscrutable as always.

Tam’s sword was easy to see. The long, leather-wrapped hilt with its bronze heron stood out from the dead leaves and winter slush it rested amidst. Rand released his hold on the girls and made to step forward, but Min tugged him back.

“I’ll get it,” she announced with a put-upon sigh. “You’ll just tear your wound open if you go clambering around in there.” Before he could object, she slid down, muttering to herself about stupid skirts and stupid shepherds and stupid patterns as she ploughed her way over to the sword. She snatched it up and turned back towards them. Rand watched her with a surprised smile on his face; she matched it with a rueful one of her own as she clambered over to them and tossed the broken sword back out of the ditch.

Elayne crouched on her heels and offered Min her hands. “Allow me.”

“Thanks Elayne.” The other girl took hold of them. “It’s a good thing you’re not a fragile little flower, like some I could name.” That rather wiped the smile off Rand’s face.

Elayne laughed lightly. “Oh hush.” She hauled Min out of the ditch and gave her a small hug. “Be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” Min objected, with an irreverent grin. “Nice and honest.” The two girls laughed at that, and Rand found himself laughing with them, even if it was at his own expense.

“Well. It’s just as well I still have friends then, or I’d be in even more trouble than usual,” he said as he bent to pick up Tam’s sword. He held the cold, hard, lifeless thing to his chest for a moment, and felt unaccountably warmer. “Thank you, Min. And you, Elayne.”

A pair of beautiful smiles were his response. And when he turned back towards the centre of camp, walking more steadily now, the pair accompanied him, one at either arm.

The bite of winter was in the air. With everything that had happened, especially the months he had spent lost in the Portal Stone, Rand had difficulty recalling the date. But he thought ... “Do either of you know what day it is?”

Min shook her head but Elayne answered. “It is Danu the second. Why do you ask?”

“No real reason,” he said. As he suspected, yesterday had marked the anniversary of his birth. He was eighteen years of age now.

When they arrived at the cookfires a gust of wind stirred the Dragon banner. Someone had found a proper staff to replace Perrin’s sapling, and then hung the damn thing right there in the middle of camp.

“What is that doing out where anybody who passes by can see it?” Rand demanded.

“It is too late to hide, Rand,” Moiraine said. She ghosted up behind him with Lan at her side. “It was always too late for you to hide.”

“You don’t have to put up a sign saying ‘here I am,’ either. I’ll never find Fain if somebody kills me because of that banner.” He shook his head and turned to Loial and Perrin. “I’m glad you stayed. I would have understood if you hadn’t.”

“Why would I not stay?” Loial said, closing his copy of  _ To Sail Beyond the Sunset _ . “You are even more  _ ta’veren _ than I believed, true, but you are still my friend. I hope you are still my friend.” His ears twitched uncertainly.

“I am,” Rand said. “For as long as it’s safe for you to be around me, and even after, too.” The Ogier’s grin nearly split his face in two.

“I’m staying as well,” Perrin said. There was a note of resignation, or acceptance, in his voice. “The Wheel weaves us tight in the Pattern, Rand. Who would have thought it, back in Emond’s Field?”

“Not me, that’s for sure,” Anna said gruffly. “When I said I’d do whatever I could to help, I wasn’t expecting ... this.”

The Shienarans were gathering around. To Rand’s surprise, they all fell to their knees. Every one of them watched him. “We would pledge ourselves to you,” Uno said. The others kneeling with him nodded.

“Your oaths are to Ingtar, and Lady Amalisa,” Rand protested. “Ingtar died well, Uno. He died so the rest of us could escape with the Horn.” There was no need to tell them or anyone else the rest. He hoped that Ingtar had found the Light again. “Tell Lord Agelmar that when you return to Fal Dara.”

“It is said,” the one-eyed man said carefully, “that when the Dragon is Reborn, he will break all oaths, shatter all ties. Nothing holds us, now. We would give our oaths to you.” He drew his sword and laid it before him, hilt toward Rand, and the rest of the Shienarans did the same. Even Hurin added his shortsword to the mix.

“We exist to oppose the Shadow. And you are the prophesised leader in the war against it,” said Areku solemnly. She studiously avoided meeting his eyes. “It is only right that we should serve you.”

“You battled the Dark One,” Masema added. Masema, who hated him. Masema who he had foolishly let use and debase him. Masema, who looked at him as if seeing a vision of the Light. “I saw you, Lord Dragon. I saw. I am your man, to the death.” His dark eyes shone with fervour.

“You must choose, Rand,” Moiraine said in a voice of icy chimes. “The world will be broken whether you break it or not. Tarmon Gai’don will come, and that alone will tear the world apart. Will you still try to hide from what you are, and leave the world to face the Last Battle undefended? Choose.”

They were all watching him, all waiting.  _ Death is lighter than a feather, duty heavier than a mountain _ . He made his decision.

* * *

By ship and horse the stories spread, by merchant wagon and man on foot, told and retold, changing yet always alike at the heart. They spread throughout Falmerden, to Valreis and Arad Doman and to lands far beyond, telling of signs and portents in the sky above Falme. And wherever they spread men proclaimed themselves for the Dragon, and other men struck them down for it and were themselves struck down in turn.

Other tales spread, of a column that rode from the sinking sun across Toman’s Head. A hundred Bordermen, it was said. No, a thousand. No, a thousand heroes come back from the grave to answer the call of the Horn of Valere. Ten thousand. They had destroyed an army of Darkfriends. They had thrown Artur Hawkwing’s returned armies back into the sea. They were Artur Hawkwing’s armies returned. Onwards they rode, toward the dawn.

Yet one thing every tale had the same. At their head rode a man whose face had been seen in the sky above Falme, and they rode under the banner of the Dragon Reborn.


End file.
